


J: WILLIAM FOSDICK 


























ART. IN FICTIC 










COLL. U. | 





er a al ; 














The Honor of the Braxtons 

















Alina Durlan. 





The HONOR OF | 
THE BRAXTONS 


A NOVEL 













By 
J. WILLIAM FOSDICK 


Author of 


‘47HE MASTERPIECE OF MONSIEUR BLANC” and 
' OTHER STORIES 





NEW YORK 
J. F. TAYLOR & COMPANY 
1902 


The HONOR OF THE BRAXTONS 





Chapter I 


CC . ND she is going to Paris of all places!” 


The widow looked up from her novel des- 

pairingly. A noisy group of horse-billiard 

players were shuffling wooden disks along the smooth 
deck of the Champagne. 

The object of the widow’s remarks, the only woman 
in the group, was young, pretty and wore a golf suit. 

The widow of banker Van Kleer was fashionable and 
worldly wise. The young lady in question who was 
going to Paris to study painting, possessed neither of 
these qualities. Chance brought them together in “ room 
56.” 

The widow had read the girl’s name plainly lettered 
on her steamer trunk—Alina Durlan, Montclair, N. J. 
“Provincial!” she thought, “alone! unprotected! I 
must chaperone her!” but she met with poor success. 
The young woman went about her affairs and chose 
her associates in a way that often shocked her room- 
mate. With the innocent, exuberant, self-reliance of 
youth, she paid but little heed to Mrs. Van Kleer’s. 
conventional advice. 

As the players finished their game the widow dropped 
her book and joined Miss Durlan. Linked arm in arm 


I 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


they walked for some time, battling with the roystering 
north wind. They broke into peals of laughter at the 
comical plights in which they were left by this imperti- 

nent breeze. | 

Once they found themselves clinging to the railing 
while they watched the steerage passengers at their rough 
games upon the deck below. A half score of Italian 
laborers were dancing to the music of an accordion. 
Grouped about them was a heterogeneous company such 
as cosmopolitan New York alone could put aboard a 
steamer. The Italians looked contented. They had 
served their time digging the trenches of New York and 
were going back to Italy with well filled pockets. 

“Look at that hoary old Jew,” said Miss Durlan, “ see 
how his white locks sing against that pile of cordage.” 

Not far from the old man were two French peasants. 
The man, a low browed, ill favored fellow, scowled at 
his wife with small, bead like eyes: 

“What a horrible face!” Miss Durlan turned to her 
companion. 

“The head of a murderer!” exclaimed the widow. 

“ He has struck her again!” Alina caught at the rail 
and gazed downwards, horrified. “I told the purser 
this morning that the brute ought to be put in irons. 
Think of striking a poor, sickly creature like that.” 

Two young men stood very near the peasants. One 
of them uttered a cry and sprang forward, but his friend 
seized his arm exclaiming—“ What is the use, old man! ” 

The widow gave vent to a sigh of relief as she saw 
the young man held in check by his friend. “He is 


2 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


too fine a fellow to come within range of that beast, my 
goodness! What flaxen hair, it is almost white. Oh 
Alina!” A scream escaped her lips as the north wind 
bore Miss Durlan’s tam-o-shanter aloft and sent it scurry- 
ing seawards but it lodged in the shrouds high above the 
deck. 

Immediately the same young man was in the shrouds, 
climbing with cat-like agility. He caught the tam-o- 
shanter in his nervous grasp and in a twinkling was down 
again. 

Soon his active shoulders and bright young face ap- 
peared above the rail. There was respectful admiration 
in his glance as he quietly said. “No trouble at 
all!” in response to the young lady’s profuse thanks. 
As he swung himself down to the steerage deck Alina 
gathered up the golden brown strands which were lash- 
ing her cheek and fastening the tam-o-shanter firmly in 
place with a long hat pin bade defiance to the north 
wind, but Mrs. Van Kleer said it was too fresh on deck 
and they went below. 

In the saloon they found a party of amateur musicians 
rehearsing for the ship’s concert which was coming off 
that night. Poor little sailor’s orphans; if they but knew 
how the traveling public of two continents suffers for 

their sake. 

_ The concert itself was a warmed-over feast, for the 
rehearsing went on all the afternoon. Mrs. Van Kleer 
and her room-mate had been listening somewhat care- 
lessly when a sensitive touch upon the keys arrested their 
attention. Their eyes met in surprise for Alina’s flaxen 


3 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


haired Bayard sat at the piano. His friend stood beside 
him and in an instant the cabin was filled with the vibra- 
tions of a sonorous barytone voice. 

Throwing herself upon the cabin seat, Alina stuffed 
a soft cushion behind her head and with half closed eyes 
became conscious that the mighty, sweeping melody was 
bearing her onwards—upwards with resistless cadence, 
away from the stuffy cabin with its ill assorted company. 

She was rudely awakened by the noisy hand clapping. 

She heard Mrs. Van Kleer exclaim “I do think the 
- Messiah grand! I wonder who they are?” The two 
musicians were modestly bowing their acknowledgments 
of the rapturous applause. 

“Two painters on their way to Paris!” volunteered a 
passenger at her elbow. “They are crossing in the 
steerage.” 

“Ugh!” exclaimed the widow. “ How can they? and 
they look like gentlemen too!” 

“They are heroes!” broke in Alina with glowing eyes. 
“Do you ever hear of doctors or lawyers or men of other 
professions sacrificing their pride to that extent?” 

No; the widow had never heard of such a thing. Peo- 
ple in the smart set never did such things. She failed to 
understand exactly why they were heroes. As the concert 
closed, Alina pressed forward to thank the two men for 
what they had done but the purser informed her that 
they had gone to the steerage. 

“Heroes! Well, I should say so!” she murmured as 
she recrossed the saloon and then shuddered at the 
memory of a visit once made to the steerage. 


4 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


As the days wore on Mrs. Van Kleer vainly tried to 
satisfy her curiosity as to Miss Durlan’s antecedents, 
but back of her companion’s naive exterior she found a 
wall of reserve which no amount of clever questioning 
could penetrate. The little that she learned came through 
the avenue of the young woman’s profession which 
seemed to dominate her nature. 

One day Mrs. Van Kleer asked if she might see 
some of the girl’s work. In response Alina reached 
into her steamer trunk and unrolling an unstretched 
canvas, held it up for inspection. It was a faithful 
study of a mighty stallion with dilated nostrils and alert 
ears. 

“And this is your specialty?’’ Mrs. Van Kleer looked 
at her in amazement. 

“Yes; I had rather paint a horse than any living 
thing. They are more beautiful than anything else.” 

“But aren’t you afraid of them?” 

“Afraid of them!” Miss Durlan laughed. “ Afraid 
of my best friends? I should say not. I trust them 
more than most people.” 

The widow was not sensitive and drew no invidious 
conclusions. She found her room-mate an indefatigable 
worker. As the lazy ocean days droned along Alina 
sketched incessantly. When not engaged in drawing her 
fellow passengers, she would station herself up forward 
with a little Skye terrier whom she called Jack curled up 
at her feet and make color sketches of clouds and sky 
with the vast expanse of rolling sea beneath. 

‘At last, on a sunny day, the two white light-houses 


. 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


of Havre were descried by the passengers of the Cham- 
pagne—mere spots of white upon the coast line. 

As the ship came to a stop before the port, the white 
sands of Trouville could be seen shining in the sunlight. 

Alina, standing alone far forward with half closed 
eyes and head tilted to one side, took in the long sweep 
of shore, noting the purplish blue shadows and luminous, 
vaporous sky. 

“Tf France is like this what must Venice be?” she 
thought turning to watch a clumsy, red-sailed fishing 
boat, battling with the many currents and eddies of the 
Seine’s great estuary. 

As the ship steamed into the avant port, she noticed 
the tiled roofs, quaint houses, and ponderous stone docks. 

There are many Americans, born in the midst of pain- 
fully new surroundings in whom there lies dormant such 
an intense thirst for anything really traditional or his- 
toric that when they first see one of these European ports 
they experience a warm heart glow not unlike that caused 
by a home coming after a long absence. Alina was one 
of these. 

The scent of wood fires, the cries and horn blasts of 
the fisher folks, the peculiar quality of sound in the tolling 
of a bell as it came over the water, the queerly bloused 
and bonneted peasantry running along the edge of the 
dock, gave her untold pleasure. 

Her reveries were brought to an abrupt termination by 
a commotion upon the deck below, where the steerage 
passengers were waiting ready to land, surrounded by 
their nondescript piles of luggage. 


6 





The Port of Havre. 





x 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


At first she saw little else than a tangled mass of hu- 
manity surging about some invisible object. The crowd 
suddenly lurched towards her and parted for a moment. 
Two struggling figures rolled into view; one, a brutal, un- 
couth French peasant whose eyes seemed starting from 
their sockets with fear and strangulation. Over him 
with both hands clutched tight about his victim’s throat, 
with a knee embedded in the fallen man’s chest was the 
flaxen haired American. 

“You beast!” he hissed between clinched teeth, “I'll - 
teach you to beat a poor, sick woman!” 

With parted lips and horror struck face Alina leaned 
far out over the rail. As the two figures writhed back- 
wards and forwards the motley crowd now closed in on 
them, now retreated. 

The American’s quick attack had stunned the hulking 
peasant into temporary submission, but his antagonist’s 
face was growing white and he could feel the slender 
fingers relaxing their hold upon his throat. 

Gradually, by a supreme effort he squirmed and braced 
his heavy body against the deck house. Then there fell 
upon Alina’s ears a savage cry of victory. The Ameri- 
can was down. 

“Quick! Help! he will kill him!” She shuddered as 
she covered her face with her hands but only for a 
moment. When she looked down again the Frenchman 
lay sprawling in the port scuppers and the American's 
companion, the singer of the Messiah was hurling over- 
board the knife that he had wrested from the ruffian’s 
hand. 


7 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The strangely assorted company, man, woman and 
child, watched the blade as it described a half circle over 
their heads and fell into the water with a sharp splash, 
then pandemonium reigned. 

In its midst stood the two Americans, one pale, ex- 
hausted, distraught. The other ruddy and strong, his 
arm thrust protectingly through his friend’s, a fierce look 
about his jaw and mouth, but in his eyes an expression 
of solicitude so tender, so true that Alina longed to grasp 
the strong right hand that had saved her Bayard. 

As though by some subtle telepathy he raised his head 
and their glances met. 

She never could have told in words what her glowing, 
grateful face expressed at that moment. 

The rich color mounted to his temples as he turned 
to speak to his companion, then the two faces were turned 
upwards as with uncovered heads they modestly acknowl- 
edged the applause of the first cabin passengers who 
crowded against the promenade deck rail. Evidently ill 
at ease beneath the stare of so many curious eyes the 
men disappeared between decks. 

In an hour’s time, after they had passed through the 
annoyances and confusion of landing, Alina and the 
widow were seated in a first class compartment of the 
rapide speeding southwards, the ever changing panorama 
of winding river, wooded islands and thatched huts en- 
grossing their attention. 

Every now and then the two Americans would come 
between Alina and the fleeting landscape with peculiar 
poignancy. She could see their gentle intelligent faces 


8 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


looking up at her so bravely, hemmed in by the sea of 
dogged ignorant humanity. She wondered from whence 
they had come and whether she would ever see them 
again. 

As they approached Paris, Mrs. Van Kleer gave Miss 
Durlan her card. “If you ever need a friend don’t fail 
to call on me! Come and see me at all events!” 

“Thanks!” said Alina with her straightforward smile 
—“O, never fear, I shall be all right! There will be 
no trouble! ” 


Chapter II 


obesity. Her name would have better suited 
her twenty years before, when she was a mil- 
liner’s pretty assistant in the Rue de la Paix. 

Having passed through the highly-colored career of 
a Parisian grisette she had at last, like so many of her 
class, found a com@ortable position as the wife of a 
concierge. As she often said to Monsieur Papillon, the 
position of door-keeper, if humble, is not to be despised. 

Was not their little office home at 25 Quai St. Michel 
with its glass doors a small kingdom of itself? Could 
the keeper of a feudal draw-bridge have more power? 
The position, however, had its annoyances; the large 
painter’s studio on the top floor had remained unrented 
all summer and Madame Papillon had suffered mentally 
and physically, as day after day she had dragged herself 
up the six long flights with the hope that the stranger 
following in her ample wake might take the studio. 

On a warm afternoon Madame Papillon had just made 
one of the fruitless ascents, and, seated in her low chair 
before the house door was fanning her hot shining cheeks 
with her apron. The inclination of her beetling eye- 
brows was far from: reassuring to the passer by. 

From her position she could easily see all that trans- 
pired on the street. The familiar nods which she re- 
ceived from the cheese vendors, bed makers and dog 


10 


Mts PAPILLON’S fatness approached 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


shearers indicated that she was one of the fixtures of 
the quarter. 

An omnibus came rumbling down the street, with a 
complement of inside passengers and but two on the 
roof. As it thundered past the door, one of the outside 
passengers sprang to his feet and pointing at the little 
notice over Madame Papillon’s door which read— 
“ Atelier a Louer,’ rapidly descended to the ground while 
his companion followed more deliberately. 

Madame Papillon knew only too well what this meant, 
so she sullenly settled her ample form into the chair. The 
young man approached, rapidly uttered a few words in 
some foreign tongue and pointed to the sign above the 
door. Madame’s only response was to raise her shoulders 
and eyebrows as she muttered—“ Je ne comprends pas”’ 
whereupon the other stranger produced a letter from 
his pocket and handed it to her with an air of deferential 
politeness. 

Madame tore it open and read. The effect was electri- 
cal. She sprang to her feet—‘‘So you are friends of 
Monsieur Thomas!” she exclaimed. “A bon garcon 
Monsieur Thomas! He occupied the studio three years. | 
Yes! Yes! I will certainly show the studio, if the Mon- 
sieurs will take the pains to mount with me.” . 

She talked rapidly as they climbed the stairs, quite 
ignoring the fact that the young men spoke but little 
French and understood less. 

As they reached the top landing, Madame Papillon 
reeled against the iron railing and pointed at a low door 


II 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


at the end of a dark corridor—“ Here is the key” she 
gasped in a hoarse whisper—‘ I will not keep you wait- 
ing—open it yourselves.” 

They fumbled at the lock for a moment and when the 
door suddenly opened, found themselves blinded by a 
flood of light which came from a lofty, uncurtained 
studio window. Both men uttered an exclamation of 
surprise. The low, tunnel-like passage and door made 
the studio appear high and spacious. 

By this time Madame Papillon had recovered her 
breath. She rapidly recited the many advantages which 
the place afforded. The young men seemed pleased from 
the first and she finally descended to her little office, with 
a light heart. They had taken the studio, a great, dusty, 
bare place with a small bedroom leading off from it. The 
whole a dingy slate gray, spotted with nail holes; yet 
it represented the heart’s desire of these two young men. 
Incomprehensible though it may seem to most people, 
it represented the realization, the laying hold upon that 
for which they had hoped and striven for many years. 

The place was old and in bad repair, but what did it 
matter? They were in the Latin Quarter of Paris and 
that sufficed. 

They had only to step out upon the wide balcony which 
extended across the entire front of the studio to see the 
Palace of the Louvre rising above the Pont Neuf and 
river mists down-stream, while up-stream gray old Notre 
Dame loomed skywards, a marvel of Gothic lace work 
bathed in the afternoon sunlight, and what sunlight! 


I2 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Felix Braxton said he had not seen any like it since he 
left Virginia. 

As he leaned out over the railing to gaze still further 
up-stream, the sunlight touched his blonde hair which a 
little breeze had tossed into a tangle. His friend involun- 
tarily tipped his head on one side as he rolled a cigarette 
and lighted it murmuring—‘ Stunning! simply stun- 
ning!” 

Standing upon the sunlit balcony with Paris stretch- 
ing out before them, the two young men forgot in this 
. supreme moment the many obstacles against which they 
had pitted their youthful courage. Years of careful 
saving, the breaking of home ties, their doubts and fears, 
the loathsome steerage were all of little consequence now. 
A new life loomed before them, gigantic with possibilities. 
They were in Paris—great, glorious Paris! 

How often during the “rests” of the model at the 
Boston Art School had the men talked of this moment. 
In the musty atmosphere of the old carved oak room 
in the Art Museum, a small piece of the old world 
which they loved, it was resolved time and time again 
that one or the other must carry off the Chanler scholar- 
ship, to which Cushing would add the small allowance 
doled out by his rich, but unwilling parent and they 
would share the common fund, crossing the Atlantic in 
the steerage if necessary. Millet, Bridgman, and Vonnoh 
had crossed in the steerage, why not they? 

So when Braxton took the scholarship, the pride of 
the Virginia cavaliers and that of the water side of 


13 


The HONOR of thee BRAXTONS 


Beacon Street was suppressed and in the steamship 
agent’s book were registered just below that of Antonio 
Moreno, Laborer, the names of Felix Braxton and Ben- 
jamin Cushing, Artists. 


14 


Siapter It) 


| HAT first Monday in Paris! They dressed by 
candle light and hurried through the cold gray 


mists to a little crémerie in the Rue St. Jacques. 
They gulped down their bowls of café au lait in haste for 
they had been told that it was necessary to be at the 
Academy early in order to secure good places. With 
rapid steps they crossed the two bridges, picked their 
way through the tangle of vegetable vendors at the Great 
Central Market and followed up the Rue Montmartre 
as far as the Grand Boulevard. 

They entered the glass roofed arcade known as the 
Passage des Panoramas. A strange place for a school, 
they thought as they passed toy shops, jewelers’ shops 
and a pipe establishment. 

Traversing almost the entire length of the arcade they 
turned into a smaller gallery and halted questioningly 
before a low doorway over which was nailed a stained 
pasteboard sign which read—“ Académie de Peinture.” 
The two friends looked at each other in mute disap- 
pointment. They had doubtless been misinformed. 
“The great Académie Julian over a pork butcher’s shop? 
No; surely not!” 

As they stood discussing the possibility of finding the 
real Académie Julian, a long haired French youth who 
wore a flat brimmed silk hat and flowing cravat accosted 
them in broken English. 

“What do the Messieurs look for? The Académie 


15 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Julian? Yes—yes—it is here! If the Messieurs will 
mount with me au premier?” 

Yes, they would; so up the dirty, narrow staircase they 
stumbled, still under the impression that there must be 
a mistake somewhere. 

The student pushed them somewhat unceremoniously 
through a doorway upon the panels of which was painted 
a life size figure of a bald headed man making a salam 
to the visitor. 

They found themselves in a suffocating atmosphere, 
heavy with tobacco smoke. In an instant they felt the 
gaze of no less than fifty pairs of eyes, while a great un- 
intelligible shout deafened their ears. 

The door by which they had entered was behind the 
model platform upon which stood a nude Italian girl. 
Standing about or sitting upon rush bottomed stools of 
all sizes were the students, as unkempt a crowd of ruf- 
fians as they had ever seen. All wore paint bedaubed 
blouses which were in harmony with the walls of the 
room, where the scrapings of innumerable palettes had 
been plastered for many years. 

The swarthy skinned model had taken one pose after 
another, in vain attempt to suit the excited students who 
were wrangling like a lot of urchins at marbles. 

At sight of the two Americans, proceedings came to a 
sudden end. Then from all sides came first a low growl 
but ever increasing in volume, until the dingy glass sky- 
lights rattled with their frenzied shrieks, “ Punch! 
P-o-o-n-c-h! P-o-o-o-n-c-h! The nouveaus must pay a 
punch!” 


16 





‘ They found themselves in a suffocating atmosphere heavy with 
tobacco smoke. Was this the great Académie Julian?” 


ail, 





o_o 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The Americans endeavored to assume an air of indif- 
ference as they crossed the room and hung up their 
overcoats and hats. As they turned to face the howling 
mob of students, a fusillade of breadcrusts commenced. 
Then there came a sudden lull as a big Frenchman 
mounted the platform and pushing the model aside, 
tacked a piece of drawing paper to the background upon 
which he scrawled with a bit of charcoal—* The Amert- 
cans must pay a punch!” 

So the Americans paid their punch which was served 
by a bushy headed Frenchman from the platform, while 
the nouveaux mounted high stools and sang each a comic 
song when comparative order was restored. 

The newcomers chose two easels at the back of the 
room and began their first day’s work in Paris, but oh; 
the sinking at the heart; the wonderment that this 
could be the Mecca of their pilgrimage. Was this the 
great Académie Julian? 


* **K *K * * 


On Wednesday the great Rovan would come to criti- 
cize. The two Americans had labored early and late that 
their work might be sufficiently advanced. A French 
student had offered to interpret for them as the master 
did not speak English. With what interest did the 
friends watch the keen gray eyes and vainly try to com- 
prehend the quick caustic utterances of the greatest critic 
in Paris, as he passed from student to student. Felix was 
the last to receive the master’s criticism. The exit of 
the professor from the class was usually the signal for 


17 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


an outburst of pent-up spirits, but on this occasion the 
master’s footsteps could be heard for a full minute upon 
the stairs. Expectancy seemed to pervade the smoky 
air; utter silence prevailed. 

It was an intense moment for Felix. He had waited 
impatiently as the master slowly worked his way through 
the tangle of easels and students. He cursed the luck 
that had made him the last man of the last row and now 
that the master was gone he still waited, the nervous 
tension of the moment paling his cheek. He struggled 
to quiet the painful throbbing of his heart. Why did 
the interpreter hesitate? Was there anything to keep 
back ? 

“Well; what did he say?” he turned impatiently. 
_“Vot deed e say?” The little man raised his shoulders 
until they touched his long hair. “ E say you no good! E 
say you much better go back to l’Amérique! E say you 
never can draw!”’ 

There was the crash of an overturned paint box. An 
American student started forward with frightened face. 
Felix tottered forward white to the lips. The American 
student caught him by the arm with a fearful look. 
Surely he will fall. But no; Felix shakes him off and 
with sudden strength born of a burning wrath, tears his 
drawing in twain and hastens from the room. The jeer- 
ing laughter of the students rings in his ears, yes keeps 
on ringing long after he has crossed the Seine and is 
pacing the floor of his own silent studio, high above the 
noisy river traffic. 

Cushing failed to grasp the situation until Felix had 


18 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


left the room. ‘Stop!’ he cried. “It’s a lie! Can’t 
you see that these damned monkeys are guying you?” 
But his voice was lost in the din which followed his 
friend’s exit. 

He started to follow Felix and bring him back. On 
second thought he turned to the interpreter. A hundred 
curious eyes were watching intently. As he seized the 
little man by the collar a great shout went up—‘‘ Coward! 
He fears a man of his size! A la porte! Put him out!” 

Dragging the Frenchman behind him he swept aside 
easels and stools and made straight for the model 
platform. | 

The yells were deafening as he discovered the bushy- 
headed bully of the atelier standing in his path. His 
arms were folded, a sinister, challenging smile was upon 
his lips. It was only the work of a moment. There was 
a terrible crash and the bully tried to extricate himself 
from a confusion of wrecked canvases, paint boxes and 
easels, while he nursed a half closed eye. 

Ben made history that morning at Julian’s. His un- 
erring “ left’ became one of the traditions of the atelier. 

Dropping the frightened interpreter upon a high stool 
he mounted the platform. With a backward throw of 
the shoulders he raised himself to his full height. A com- 
manding wave of the hand compelled silence. 

He spoke as he had struck; quickly, firmly, straight 
from the shoulder. “ Messieurs; I congratulate you! 
Your admirable joke has been most successful. It is 
quite possible that at this moment my friend is throw- 
ing himself into the Seine. What more could you want? 


19 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


But mind! I1f I find him alive he will come back to the 
atelier and the first man who dares molest him must pay 
the reckoning here! here! Do you understand?” 

With clinched fist he struck his broad chest blow after 
blow. Turning quickly he grasped the interpreter by 
the collar and lifted him to the platform. “ Now you 
drivelling little ape; put that into good French and mind 
you tell them every word!” 

When the Frenchman had finished his harangue Ben 
stepped down from the platform. The students fell si- 
lently away as he quietly sought the door. The spell 
of that terrible “left”? was still upon them. 


* * x x * 


In the studio by the river Felix was suffering untold 
tortures. The humiliating thought that perhaps he could 
not draw after those years of work had all but driven 
him mad. When Ben came home he found him gazing 
into nothingness with a face so drawn and death-like 
that he stood for a moment horror struck. 

“Don’t look like that old man! It is all a lie, a beastly 
hoax!” He hastened to Felix’s side and put a kindly 
arm about him. “They were hazing us! That little 
rascal Boschet lied! Rovan said you had talent, lots of it! 
One of the Americans who understands French told me 
so.” 7 
“Talent?” Felix started up eager, hungry for just 
such words. His face lighted as Ben cried “ Indeed he 
did! It is the first time he has praised a nouveau this 
season!” 


20 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


But Felix’s face clouded again. He clutched the table 
edge fiercely. 

“Talent, yes; but they insulted me! Of what use is 
talent to me now?” 

“You will go back to the academy Monday!” 

Felix was pacing the floor excitedly but came to a 
sudden halt before Ben. 

“Do you take me for an ass, Ben. Do you think 
I have no pride? Do you want me to kill that little 
cur?” 

“O bother Boschet!’’ Cushing bit his pipe stem and 
tried to restore a faint spark within to a glow while he 
executed a counter march with Felix. 

“He was only hazing you. You let that nasty South- 
ern temper of yours run away with you. It was all a 
huge joke, can’t you understand?” 

“No; I can’t! And you New Englanders can never 
understand a Southerner’s sense of honor!” Felix 
halted suddenly. “ Jsuppose it is for policy’s sake and be- 
cause you won't allow your business to be interrupted, 
that you overlook an insult now and then and forget that 
you are less a gentleman on that account. I tell you 
I was not brought up that way! No sir! A Braxton 
has too fine a sense of honor to tolerate such a thing!” 
He swung back his arm with a gesture of contempt. 

“Come—Come!” Ben was pleading in earnest. 
“You forget that in Paris you are only an ordinary 
foreigner. You assume too much when you expect 
Boschet and his friends to act like Virginians in Vir- 
ginia. You are in Paris not Braxton County. Great 


21 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


heavens man! Have you a century to live that you can 
afford to squander time in this way?” 

Felix started. He glanced up at Ben from the chair 
into which he had thrown himself. 

“A century? Heaven knows I haven’t! I—I—am 
the biggest fool in all Paris! I will go back to-morrow! ” 


22 


Chapter IV 


66 ] / ON DIEU Charles! Have we another 
Commune? Allons! Quick! Put out the 
light! Close the shutters!” 

Madame Papillon hurried to the porte cochére and 
looked up the Quai St. Michel. 

A hooting mob was coming her way. She slammed the 
door and opening the little grated window peered out 
with bated breath. | 

The cat calls and shrieks came nearer and nearer. She 
heard the sound of wheels and cries of “ A bas Duchdatel! 
To the guillotine!” 

A two-wheeled butcher’s cart drawn by a score of men 
passed the door. In it stood a young man. His face 
was pale. His dark frightened eyes were cast down- 
wards. His arms were tied behind him with a hempen 
rope. 

“Down with Duchatel! Long live the models! Long 
live the Realists!” The quay resounded with their cries. 

“Duchatel again! Will they give the man no peace? 
These students are gamins—canaille!”’ Madame Pa- 
pillon shrugged her fat shoulders and opening the door 
watched the crowd until it turned into the Rue St. 
Jacques. “ All because he paints without models—and 
why not? Does not Francois, the bedmaker’s son, paint 
without models every day at the Fete de Neuilly? Duable 
—and he has great talent too! Why all this fuss about 
Duchatel ? ”” 


23 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“ They say it is his paper. He is editor you know!” 
Monsieur Papillon dragged out two chairs and they 
seated themselves before the door. 

“Comment sappelle vil?” The Ec—Ecstasist! Ah 
yes; I recall it now! I read of it only yesterday in the 
Petit Journal. Mon Dieu! Here they come again!” 

The little man retreated in doors. Madame scowled 
and settled herself in her chair, but started to her feet 
at sight of flashing sabers and uniforms. The crowd 
retreated from the Rue St. Jacques across the bridge 
and melted away beneath the shadow of Notre Dame. 

“The police! Enfin the gamins like to play with them 
—Tiens! Some one arrested? Ho there!” She ac- 
costed a student of the neighborhood who came hurry- 
ing towards her “ Who is he?” she nodded her head to- 
wards a man whom a number of policemen were escort- 
ing along the quay. 

“Do you not know him Madame? That is Rouvier 
the great novelist—anarchist! It was he who started the 
riot. He hates Duchatel. Duchatel was once a priest. 
Rouvier detests the priests. Ma foi it was droll! Du- 
chatel will have nothing of the models. He damns them 
in his journal. They found Octavie the model in the 
little Rue St. Jacques—she poses at Julian’s. ‘A la voi- 
ture! ‘A la voiture!’ cries Rouvier and up beside Du- 
chatel they put her. Then—ah then—ma foi it was 
funny—they bind her arms about him comme cela!” 
The man shrieked with laughter as he threw his arms 
about Monsieur Papillon’s neck. 

“They drive down the Boulevard to the Place Maubert 


24 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


—the wagon stops—O—la—la! What a dance—all 
around the cart, then ” He opened his hands out- 
wards, shrugged his shoulders and jerked his head to- 
wards the departing squad of police. “ Bonsoir Madame! 
Bonsoir Monsieur!” He raised his hat and hurried on. 

Except for the distant rumble of a cab the quay was 
quiet once more. 

The woman knitted a coarse blue stocking in silence. 

Monsieur Papillon folded his hands across his waist- 
coat. His chin sank into his chest. He was soon in a 
land where the concierge spends much of his time. 

A spare, drooping figure came along the quay with 
dragging steps. He hesitated before the stone stair- 
way leading down to the canal, then hurried on at 
sight of the Papillons. 

“Hist!” 

Monsieur Papillon started to a bolt upright. His scull 
cap rolled to the pavement. 

Madame Papillon caught him by the arm. “ Did you 
see him?” 

“Who—imbécile? By the saints of Dijon, would you 
frighten me to death?” 

“Duchatel! See there he goes! It is he!” 





* * a.) * cd 


“ Sapristi! But he could paint! See how the master 
modelled that cheek and how one feels the bone beneath 
the skin. What chance, my friends, to breathe the atmos- 
phere surrounding such a chef-d’euvre. You do well 
to come from America to gaze upon this picture aione.” 


25 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


In the silence which followed these words a young 
woman engaged in copying Paul Potter’s ‘ White 
Horse” turned from her work with questioning eyes in 
which there was a look of recognition, but such was the 
abstraction of the students that she was passed unnoticed. 

The speaker was small, a mere pigmy as he stood 
between the two young men whom he called “ friends.” 

With arms interlocked the trio left the Van Dyck por- 
trait and passed on to a Frans Hals at the end of the 
long gallery of the Louvre. The Frenchman talked volu- 
bly while the other two listened with respectful atten- 
tion. : 

It was easy to recognize Braxton and Cushing al- 
though during a few months the men had made radical 
changes in their dress. 

Felix’s responsive Southern nature had already wel- 
comed the easy going ways of the Latin Quarter. With 
corduroy suit, flat brimmed tall hat, huge flowing cravat 
and clustering locks he looked the genuine Bohemian. 
Cushing on the other hand had cast aside his “ bell 
top” for a soft Alpine and wore a rough English tweed 
suit. He still looked an Anglo-Saxon and always did to 
the end of his days. 

Boschet, for the third man was none other than he, 
had become a welcome companion in their pilgrimages to 
the; Louvres.) 

After his return to the academy, Felix worked with 
fanatical zeal and accomplished wonders. He instinc- 
tively avoided Boschet, who in his turn left Felix to him- 
self. He had not forgotten Ben’s gladiatorial speech. 


26 





‘Students at play. Académie Julian.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


One day while the model was resting, Felix left his 
work and crossing the room chatted with an American 
student who presently called his attention to the fact 
that Boschet was standing before Felix’s easel. 

Felix glanced across the room with contracted brows. 
“What deviltry is the little monkey up to now?” he 
muttered. 

A crowd of curious students had gathered about 
Beschet. Felix’s companion had followed their example 
to return shortly with a radiant face. “I congratulate 
you Braxton!” he said, holding out his hand. ‘“ Boschet 
has been saying fine things of your work!” 

“Bah!” said Felix bitterly. “ Does it make an atom of 
difference one way or the other what Boschet thinks of 
my work?” 

“I should say yes, most emphatically!” replied his 
companion. “ That is if you care for the praise of the 
strongest student in the Academy, in Paris for that 
matter. Boschet ranked second in the concours for the 
Prize of Rome last year and is sure to come in first this 
year. He isn’t much to look at, but he can paint!” 

All of this Felix found to be true; furthermore that 
this grotesque little man who could stoop to any devil- 
try for a moment’s amusement had a warm impulsive 
heart and a technique which was the envy of all. 

As for Cushing. he had a good laugh one day, having 
discovered that he had not only been guilty of jerking 
the Prize of Rome winner about by the collar, but had 
‘called Boschet, the already great Boschet, the finest 
draughtsman in the academy “a drivelling ape.” 


27 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


After the three men had spent some time before the 
Frans Hals they retraced their steps to stop once more 
before the Van Dyck. As Felix glanced from the por- 
trait to the lower line of pictures, he noticed the copyist 
at work before the Paul Potter. 

Instantly his eyes sought Ben’s who nodded back a 
recognition. Felix never forgot a striking face and this 
one possessed the added charm of beauty. He remem- 
bered so well the picture she made clinging to the hurri- 
cane deck rail; how the strong ocean breeze tugged at 
her fluttering garments revealing the lines of a young, 
supple figure. 7 

The trio passed on, Felix trying to draw conclusions 
as to the intentions of a swarthy Italian painter who came 
up at the moment and engaged the girl in a lively 
conversation. 

“Charming! si joli!”” exclaimed Boschet with a mean- 
ing smile. ‘ The Italian finishes her copy. They dine 
& la Bohéme at Suresnes—Enfin—you know the rest.” 

He shrugged his shoulders but winced as he felt his 
arm in a vice-like grip. 

“Stop! You forget. She is an American!” There 
was a look in Ben’s face that Boschet had seen before 
and feared. 

“Ah, outi—oui, American to be sure! Your Ameri- 
can girls are wonderful, beautiful, clever, virtuous, 
there are none like them. They come, they go, they 
dine without chaperons. They even smoke cigarettes 
and one sees them sipping absinthe at the Café de Paris. 


28 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


They go with their gentlemen friends to the Bullier, 
the Moulin Rouge—Ah yes, your American girls are 
wonderful.” Again Boschet smiled, this time a quizzical, 
puzzled smile. 

Felix laughed as he thrust his arm into the French- 
man’s. ‘Come Boschet; you will lose the Priv de Rome 
if you try to understand the American girl. It is an all 
summer’s job—eh Ben? ” 

“There are girls and girls,” was the latter’s only 
response as he released Boschet’s arm. 

As they passed below the “ Winged Victory” Felix 
laughingly declared that she symbolized the American 
girl in all her freedom. 

They descended the broad staircase to the court and 
the Place du Carrousel. Out into the sunlight they 
strolled, their footsteps echoing under the great archways 
as they passed on to the river—that wonderful river 
with the traditions of centuries buried in its turbulent 
bed. Fascinating and terrible; lovely and hideous; as the 
teeming life along its banks chances to make it; always 
interesting to the student of art for here he finds color, 
atmosphere, life. 

They loitered upon the middle span of the bridge, the 
noisy procession of cabs and busses at their backs, the 
swirling spring torrent below. 

The little steamers were making a brave struggle 
against the fierce current. The floating bath houses were 
trebly chained. The fishermen idling along the lower 
quays might just as well have been at home. What fish 


29 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


would ever be so foolish as to stem this current for a 
bite at a stale worm? 

As the three students reached the opposite bank, they 
turned to the old book boxes ranged along the stone — 
parapets as naturally as ducks turn to water. 

The painter collects instinctively. He may live in 
a tiny attic room at ten francs a month, but there you will 
find him surrounded by scraps of ancient tapestries, bits 
of old brass, curious old leather bound books, stray 
plates from rare editions on costume, ornament, archi- 
tecture, the latter bought for a few centimes at these very 
book stalls. 

The mode of attack reveals the man. Ben unearthed 
a copy of Emerson’s Essays and quickly was lost to the 
outside world. Felix dipped into the boxes in a desultory 
way laughing aloud at the caricatures in a pile of comic 
journals. He fiercely attacked a pile of anatomy plates 
fully intending to buy a score, but ended by throwing 
them into a corner as he leaned over the stone parapet 
to watch the amateur fishermen who had ceased their 
angling and were grouped about some object of com- 
mon interest. Boschet was rummaging through a pile 
ot brochures. “ Aha!” he cries, his face lighting with 
cunning mischief. ‘“ Here is a copy of ‘ The Ecstasist.’ 
Mon Dieu! but Duchatel is an <«nbécile! Listen 
Felix!” and he reads aloud with mock seriousness— 
“The Ecstasists are a school of painters far in advance 
of their times. The painter of the future will, like the 
Eestasists, paint without models i 


30 








” 


ways. 


“Under the great arch 





* 


nal 
= 
7 
: 
‘ 
of 
a 
f 
4 
“ 
3 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Without models!” Felix broke in with a cry of 
derision. ‘Poor fool of a Duchatel! As soon expect 
us to paint without eyes!” 

“The French School” continued Boschet “ grovels in 
gross sensualism—the slave of models gathered from 
the pavements and brothels of Paris. Rot! Rot! 
Rot!” Boschet emphasized each repetition of the Eng- 
lish slang word with a vicious tear at the offensive sheet. 

“Va!” He cast the fragments riverwards. The 
March wind swept them down to the lower quay where 
they were caught in the wheels of a black painted push 
cart which was being trundled towards the group of 
fishermen. 

The group parted as the cart drew near and the 
students saw them load on its grewsome freight. 

“Another suicide! Most likely an Ecstasist!”’ Bos- 
chet laughed ironically. 

“Who is it?’ He accosted a fisherman who ap- 
proached, reeling up his line as he walked. The man 
greeted his question with a conscienceless smile. “ No- 
body in particular! Only another imbécile painter. They 
called him Du—Du—Duchatel.” 

“Duchatel?” The three men uttered the name in 
unison as they looked into one another’s faces. 

Felix paled. Even Boschet cast a guilty look at the 
push cart as it passed them but he shrugged his shoul- 
ders as he paid the book vendor for the destroyed copy 
of “ The Ecstasist ” and muttered “ Enfin—what is to be 
expected of one who scorns realism, truth, the very 


aL 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


foundation of our great academy, the model? What is 
to be expected of an emasculated art?” 

Then with the volatility of his race he smiled as they 
turned from the quay into the Rue de Seine. “A happy 
thought! Allons mes amis! To the Café des Ecoles! 
Let us drink to our confréres the models!” 


32 


Chapter V 


Ben stood in the doorway of the studio, 
| dress suit case in hand. It was the Mardt- 
Gras, and he had been invited to a house party at Fon- 
tainebleau. Although they had been nearly two years 
in Paris, he had only just presented the letter of intro- 
duction which brought about this invitation. 

Felix looked up from his easel over by the window, 
his face rather drawn and tired. “ Yes; I shall have 
a right good time, a sure enough frolic; I shall dine 
at Mootz’s to-night.” 

Dining at Mootz’s suggested so many convivial things 
that Ben gave a significant chuckle and calling another 
good-by, slammed the door. Felix worked as an artist 
works when he sees his ideals gradually taking form. 
To be sure it was only an ébauche, a mere sketch of what 
he hoped to do later on with the aid of a model. The 
silence of the studio was only broken by his deep 
breathing or his foot falls as he occasionally walked back 
to regard his work at a distance. 

Strange noises came up from the street below. The 
blast of tin trumpets, noisy kazoos, boisterous shouts, 
and occasionally the call of a melodious hunting horn. 
He had totally forgotten that it was the Mardi-Gras. 

At last the light began to fade and Felix reluctantly 
laid aside his palette with a long, deep sigh. He me- 
chanically rolled and lighted a cigarette and stepped 


oo 


cc (Go old man! Amusez vous bien!” 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


out on the balcony. For months he had carried about 
in his mind a Psyche of such purity that he had searched 
all Paris in vain for a model. As he sat on the iron 
railing gazing off into space he could trace her oval face 
with the star-like eyes looking into his. Ah, yes; he 
must search and search until he found the right model. 
As he fell to pacing the balcony a reaction set in and 
then a look of secret dread which Ben had often noticed 
passed across his sensitive face. Would he be able to 
finish it after all? 

From below, echoing across the canal came a rollick- 
ing, familiar song of the atelier. TF elix’s face bright- 
ened and his whole being seemed to catch the rhythm 
of the somewhat diabolical refrain. 

He had come to love these happy-go-lucky classmates. 
He never thought of himself or his fears when in their 
company. All the sunlight of ‘his southern nature shone 
forth when brought out by their companionship. The 
students down below were waving, motioning him to 
come. He seized his hat and cane and sprang down the 
stairs two at a time, singing the atelier refrain as he 
went. 

The spell of the carnival was in the air. Hoodlums 
in grotesque attire were skylarking on the pavements, 
but it was only a foretaste of what followed when day- 
light fled. | 

The day was warm. There was a touch of spring in 
the air, that magic touch which transforms Paris from 
a damp, draughty, comfortless city into a budding para- 
dise bathed in seductive sunlight. So it seemed to Felix 


34 


ei 
Bes 





felix Braxton. 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


as he sauntered along the Boulevard with his fellow 
students. The freedom of this out-of-door life was 
doubly intoxicating to one born in a southern climate. 
This delicious lazy feeling of irresponsibility always 
acted as a panacea to his responsive, sensuous tempera- 
ment. 

All Paris was out of doors. The little tables before the 
cafés were crowded with merry-makers. Now and then 
Felix and his friends would stop to banter a party of 
students. As they approached the Café Voltaire, an 
entire company of students rose to their feet and uncov- 
ering their heads cried with great gusto—* Vive le Prince 
de Galles!” 

One of Felix’s company whom the students had 
dubbed the Prince of Wales because of his strong re- 
semblance to the Prince, lifted his hat with mock dig- 
nity bowing to right and left, but suddenly a number of 
French students from the Academy of Medicine over the 
way cried “A bas les Anglais!” and attacked the 
English group with canes and chairs. The Prince of 
Wales however, whose feats as a boxer are still talked 
of at Julian’s, quickly routed the enemy and before the 
infuriated waiters had righted their chairs and tables, 
the Prince and his followers had disappeared into the Rue 
de Seine and from thence into the Rue de Buci. 

They stopped before a door over which hung a trans- 
parency which read—“ The ‘American’s Rendegvous! 
Kept by M. Mootz.” 

Barely within the door they were again attacked. 
Felix was seized and borne aloft upon the shoulders of 


35 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


his comrades, up and down the room to cries of “ Vive 
Felix! V-i-v-e F-e-l-1-x!” 

“What is this all about?” cried Felix, as soon as his 
voice could be heard. 

“Why, bless your heart, old boy,” cried “ Stumpy ” of 
St. Louis, “ you have won another concour! Now, boys! 
Who is Felix Braxton?” 

The American’s Rendezvous fairly trembled as they 
shouted in unison, 


* First in war! 

“ First in peace! 

“ First in all the concours 
“At Ju-li-an’s!” 


The spirit of the Carnival was at Mootz’s that night. 
The long, tunnel-like room was filled with students of 
all nationalities. Their shouts and songs reverberated 
between the smoky walls, but above the din could be 
heard the clarion voice of Monsieur Mootz, calling orders 
from a platform where he sat corpulent and florid, like 
Bacchus enthroned. | 

Two waiters scampered about, also calling orders and 
serving customers. At the furthermost end of the room 
a vista of copper pans could be seen through a haze of 
fatty vapor and tobacco smoke. Here the cook was hard 
at work echoing orders in stentorian tones. 

Mootz was a prime favorite with the students, not 
only because he allowed them almost unlimited credit, 
but singular to relate, he had commanded a company of 


36 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


volunteers in the Franco-Prussian War in which their 
great master Rovan had been a private. 

The students had naturally promoted him to a general- 
ship, but he never resented this, and would always an- 
swer their salute of “ Bonjour Monsieur le Général!” 
with “ Bonjour mes camarades!”’ 

He had been forced to take many a painting in pay- 
ment for dinners which had gone the way all good things 
go with half-starved students, and the dingy walls were 
lined with canvases of all sizes and shapes, some bear- 
ing the names of men already great in the art world, 
while others were grotesque caricatures of students who 
frequented the place. 

The spontaneous piece of horse play which the en- 
trance of Felix had provoked, evidenced how the young 
Virginian’s joyous nature had won the good will of 
his fellow students. 

He had worked with feverish, tireless energy which his 
more sedate companions said would burn out his life if 
he did not spare himself. He had appeared at Julian’s 
unknown, a stranger to all, to become in a few months 
the most popular American and brilliant worker in the 
class. 

Felix found the ovation at Mootz’s almost as intoxicat- 
ing as the bad wine which Mootz opened in his honor. 
Is it to be wondered that his spirits burst their bonds 
in wild, hilarious song, his comrades joining in until the 
clarion voice of General Mootz was lost in the tumult? 

Yes; the spirit of the Carnival was abroad at Mootz’s 


37 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


that night. They sallied forth like all the world on mis- 
chief bent, the whole of Paris their hunting ground. 
Like the Indians on their native plains they marched in 
Indian file disguised in leering masks and outlandish 
noses. 

Many an American tourist was startled into a sur- 
prised state of patriotism when he heard the stirring 
refrain of “ Marching through Georgia’ come up to him 
trom the surging crowd below. 

In and out, like a huge, restless reptile, the Indian file 
wound its way through the crowds of masqueraders, 
halting only for refreshments, which was far too often, - 
or to join other masqueraders in a wild reel upon the 
smooth asphalt. It was very late when the blazing lights 
of the Students’ Ball appeared ahead. 

With riotous shouts they plunged into the vortex of 
frenzied revelry. A noisy band was playing a madden- 
ing air of the quarter. Through the heavy pall of to- 
bacco smoke “La Goulu” could be seen dancing a gro- 
tesque figure with her cadaverous, loose-jointed partner 
from the Exterior Boulevard. 

Suddenly a savage yell rent the air and there was a 
rush to the center of the hall. An Indian chief in war 
paint and feathers was performing a wild war dance, 
while about him whirled a huge circle of American 
students. Two or three cow-boys, some more Indians, 
and a number of models joined them. 

With terrific momentum, the nondescript ring of 
dancers spun about the hall. The Americans had taken 

38 





‘(The spirit of the Carnival was abroad.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


the floor by force, much to their delight, but they had 
provoked the ire of the burly floor manager who sallied 
forth to break the ring. 

Staggering with the vertigo of motion, Felix felt a 
hand at his coat collar and found himself curveting off 
at a tangent. 

His head struck something hard; there was the crash 
of an overturned table and broken glass, then he heard 
and saw nothing for an instant. 

When he scrambled to his feet the scene swam before 
him. The familiar voice of a woman accosted him in 
bantering tones “ O ho; Felix my boy! You have spilled 
our beer and must make it good!” 

But Felix never answered. He stood with his eyes 
riveted upon her companion. 

“How strange!” he muttered, “marvelous!” He 
had searched all Paris for weeks for his own particular 
Psyche, and to-night in the midst of this pandemonium 
he finds himself at her feet, while she looks shyly out at 
him with frightened eyes. 

She is dressed as a Norman peasant and sits beside 
Octavie the model who has posed for a half score of 
Venuses, two of which are in the Luxembourg. 

“Voyons Felix!” cried Octavie—“ You are very po- 
lite! Why do you stare a shy country girl out of coun- 
tenance? Ho; Garcon! More beer! Eh bien Felix, 
how do you like me as Columbine? ” 

“Charming! But I have always found you more 
ravishing as Venus!” cried Felix with a merry laugh 


39 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


as he righted the table and chairs. ‘ But you too, are 
impolite Octavie! May I not know your friend? ”’ 

“Ah yes;” exclaimed Octavie apologetically, “my 
cousin has come from Rouen to pose. Lili! this is 
Monsieur Felix, the distinguished American painter!” 

Lili’s dark fringed, lustrous eyes had rested upon 
Felix with half frightened admiration from that first 
moment when he came crashing headlong within their 
line of vision. 

He took her proffered hand in his and raised it to his 
lips with an undefinable grace. She thought him a god. 

Still retaining her hand in his nervous grasp, his 
ardent eyes met hers. The dark lashes fell, but not until 
the brown orbs had flashed back an answer that made the 
blood course madly through his veins. 

The air pulsated with the fever of an inviting waltz. 
Yielding to an uncontrollable impulse he quickly drew 
her to him and they whirled away into the sea of frantic 
dancers. 

On they sped, round and round the great hall. Sud- 
denly she uttered a cry of pain and clung closely to 
Felix. A hulking fellow in sabots had stepped on her 
foot. 

Lifting her lightly in his arms he carried her to one of 
the little arbors in the garden where it was dusky and 
cool. 

As he tried to place her upon the bench beside him, 
her arm closed tight and warm about his neck. For an 
instant he sensed her throbbing heart against his own. 


40 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


He felt her warm breath as she nestled in his neck, then 
he drew her face up to his. It flushed pink again. 
“Lili, I love you!” he whispered. 
Her half closed eyes were swimming. “And you, 
Monsieur, I adore!” she murmured passionately. 


AI 


Chapter VI 


as WW" have I seen you before?” 
“Think hard and see if you can’t re- 
member!” said Ben Cushing to the pretty 
widow beside him. 

She pressed a forefinger to her temple with a puzzled 
look. “ Ah!” she cried, ‘‘ Now I remember! On board 
the Champagne of course!”’ 

It required quite a piece of mental conjuring to juggle 
a man from the steerage of the Champagne to the top 
of this smartly equipped coach which was bowling along 
through the Forest of Fontainebleau and Ben looked 
entirely at home there in his stylish English suit and 
silk hat. | 

“But what in heaven’s name possessed you to cross in 
that way?” asked Mrs. Van Kleer in amazement. 

“ Devotion to my art. and a very dear friend who 
couldn’t afford to come any other way. Neither could 
I for that matter. You see my father absolutely refused 
to make an artist of me, so I took matters into my own 
hands.” 

“Ugh! how horrid it must have been. Ah yes; I do 
remember your friend, he saved Miss Durlan’s tam-o- 
shanter from a watery grave—poor Alina; I wonder 
where she is now.” 

“T saw her only yesterday copying in the Louvre.” 

“T hope she was in good company,” said the widow 
with emphasis. 


42 





Fontainebleau. 





v 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“In good company?” wonderingly. 

“Yes; you know one night this winter my brother 
and I were driving home from the Opera. There was 
a blockade; we were wedged in close to the pavement. 
I was nervous and wanted to get out, so my brother 
tried to amuse me by calling my attention to the people 
sitting about the café tables and would you believe it, the 
first person I beheld was Miss Durlan at a table in the 
full glare of the electric light with—with a—well he 





- might have been an organ grinder or a ” She hesi- 
tated for lack of a word strong enough to express HR 
disgust. 


“An artist!’’ suggested Ben with suppressed merri- 
ment. 

Ben found the house party at Fontainebleau so enter- 
taining, that before he was aware of it he had whiled 
away nearly two weeks. What wonder in the midst of 
the great historic forest, each gnarled oak of which 
could whisper legends of the hunt, the fleeing stag and 
wild boar. 

Whenever an opportunity presented itself he would 
mount one of his host’s thoroughbreds for a brisk canter 
over to Barbizon where he spent an occasional hour with 
the artists at Siron’s. 

On the last of these occasions a man just down from 
Paris told him that his portrait of Felix had been ac- 
cepted at the Salon. When he galloped back to tell his 
friends of his good fortune, he found the official noti- 
fication awaiting him, also a telegram from his parents 
who were in London. 


43 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


‘‘How strange,’ he mused as he read the dispatch 
asking him to meet his father in Paris the next night. 
“He crosses the Atlantic to win me away from my art, 
and here by the same delivery is something that I can 
wave before his dear old eyes. He is a business man 
and wants cold hard facts. Well here they are.” 

He stored the precious document away in his pocket 
for further use and sent a few lines to Felix explain- 
ing his prolonged absence, and asked him to send a 
satchel of clothing over to the Continental Hotel, as he 
would probably be detained there several days, possibly 
a week. 

Upon arriving in Paris Ben found his parents on tour- 
ing bent with the itinerary of a month in Italy all mapped 
out. 

There was much shopping and sight seeing to be at- 
tended to before leaving and a week passed before he 
had an hour at his disposal. 

He hailed a passing cab and drove to the Quai St. 
Michel, hoping to find Felix at home, but in this he was 
disappointed. However, Madame Papillon handed him 
the pass key and he climbed the stairs humming a fa- 
miliar air. 

“Ah;” he thought. “ Now for a good smoke in the 
dear old place.” 

As he entered the studio the glare of the window at 
first blinded him. He started for his pipe rack, but 
halted with a jerk—“ Great Scott!” he uttered vehe- 
mently as he shaded his eyes to make sure that he was 
not mistaken. 


44 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


No; it is not the same old place by any means. 
Something has happened in his absence. His eyes wander 
wonderingly over the room. He shakes his head, heaves 
a long sigh and starts again for his pipe rack. His foot 
strikes something. He stoops to pick it up and holds it 
somewhat gingerly between his fingers with an odd, 
amused expression. A woman’s shoe; a dainty Louis 
Quinze affair with arching instep and high heel. He 
places it upon a shelf hard by, and jamming a wad of 
tobacco fiercely into his pipe mutters under his breath 
—‘ Poor Felix!” 

When the dense cloud of smoke caused by rapid and 
continuous puffing had cleared away, he turned to go 
out on the balcony. He and Felix had solved many hard 
problems out there. His steps were however again ar- 
rested. 

Face to the wall was Felix’s easel and on it a large 
canvas. Yielding to impulse he crossed the room and 
wheeled it into the light. “Ah! Felix has found his 
Psyche at last.” 

Only the head and shoulders were finished; the youth- 
ful, nude figure and leafy background were merely sug- 
gested in charcoal. 

He stood for a long time motionless. Here was the 
Psyche which Felix had so often described to him as 
they smoked their pipes in the gloaming. 

He continued to stand, held by the marvelous beauty 
of eyes in which glowed the light of love. 

“Great Heavens!” he thought as he turned the easel 
to the wall “If I could only paint like that.” 


45 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


He stepped out on the balcony and paced back and forth 
in the sunlight pulling away at his briarwood. He was 
trying to settle a problem which would not have been 
possible a year ago—or two weeks ago. 

Would the end—in Felix’s case—justify the means? 
Must he destroy this day dream of Felix’s? That was 
the problem. 

The grand beginning of the painting inside had com- 
pletely overwhelmed him. As he drank in the beautiful 
message of the canvas he found himself thinking “ Had 
any man the right to break the spell that was giving the 
world such a master-piece? ” 

“No!” he ejaculated as he entered the studio and 
picked up his hat—‘ I can’t—at least not to-day—I will 
write him from Italy.” 


46 


Chapter VII 


14 Y dear old Ben: Your letter offended me. 

M I thought it hypocritical, unsympathetic, 

grandfatherly. I was in a rage. You 

have seen me in that state of mind so often that I will 
not use up paper and ink describing it. 

Your argument is all wrong. In the first place I never 
in my life lived until now. The life now linked with 
mine makes living possible. 

In the second place I never painted until now. You 
admitted as much in your letter. 

Your point of view is all wrong. You seem to think 
that 1 am going the way of all those licentious fellows 
of the Quarter—that the end will be as you say it al- 
ways is. 

Ah, old man; you don’t know what true happiness 
means. You don’t know what it is to have your cares 
swept away in an instant by the soft, sweet touch of 
loving lips. At work or at play to have a pair of long- 
ing trustful eyes ever looking into yours. J shudder at 
the barrenness of my life before she came to me. 

The touch of Lili’s fingers transforms everything that 
they come in contact with. There are curtains and 
plants in the little bed room window now, and a canary 
singing merrily on the balcony. 

If you could see the pretty little dinners that Lili and I 
have out on the balcony, with Lili in her pretty pink 
gown (which she made herself) making salad and daintily 


47 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


biting off a bit with her pearl white teeth to see if it 
were all right, you would pronounce Venice, Florence 
and the rest banal and uninteresting. 

And now I will tell you why you are all wrong in 
your premises. Lili is my wife. To be sure we have not 
gone through the usual forms, but the solemn covenant 
of eternal union was made one lovely day under a big 
spreading oak tree in the woods at Versailles and she 
now wears my plain gold ring, the one I always wore. 

Do you remember those dark days, those awful mis- 
givings which so often haunted me? They have not 
been possible since Lili came into my life. No! I shall 
not return to America until my affairs enable me to take 
Lili there as my lawful wife. When the scholarship ex- 
pires I shall eke out an existence somehow. It will be 
easy with Lili always beside me. I am lonely this after- 
noon; she has gone for a few hours to visit an aunt 
at Auteuil. That aunt is my béte noir, she keeps Lili 
there far too many hours, but Lili says that when the 
old lady dies she will bequeath all to her, so I bear it 
for Lili’s sake. 7 

Ah; old boy you can never know how it is until you 
have loved. 

When do you return to Paris? Come to the old home 
when you do and see how it is changed. In the mean- 
time don’t be hard on your old chum. 

FELIX.” 


It was sundown on the lagoon. The sound of bells 
stole musically across the wide, glassy surface of the 


48 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


water. The tolling of the bells of big campaniles, the 
constant tinkling of far away church bells in distant 
towers seemed to burden the air with melody. 

The letter was opened at an opportune moment. Felix 
himself could not have chosen a better time. A gentle 
swell rocked the gondola. ‘The bells ceased ringing 
and now and then a few bars of a passionate old Italian 
love song was wafted over the lagoon by a lazy little 
breeze which fanned Ben’s cheek. He sat for a long time 
in a brown study, the open letter still in his hand; then 
he bade the gondolier row him far out into the Adriatic, 
where he drifted he never knew how long, trying to 
settle that question for Felix. It had confronted him 
when he first saw the Psyche. It still perplexed him 
“Would the end justify the means?” 

Felix had said that he—Ben—had never loved, that 
he was incapable of judging p 

“Antonio!’’ His gondolier’s cigarette fell into the 
sea with a sharp hiss, so suddenly had his voice broken 
the stillness of sundown. 

“Si Signor!” The voice was deep, musical, vibra- 
tive. 

“Are you married Antonio?” 

“Not yet Signor.” 

“But I heard you speak of your bambino only yester- 
day.” 

“True, Signor; and a happy home it is. Maria has 
been true to me for three years and we shall be married 
some day.” 

“ Ah—then you love your—wife and boy?” 


49 





The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


“Si Signor; as I love the Holy Virgin and Infant 
Jesus!” | 

“Then you will be happy if you—marry.” 

“Happy?” There was a rich flush upon the gon- 
dolier’s bronzed cheek. His melodious laugh rang over 
the water—“ Happy Signor? The Princes of India are 
not happier than Antonio and Maria and little Tinto! ” 

“ Ah—I am glad!” Ben gave a sigh of relief. “To 
the hotel Antonio! The short route!” 

Then the thing was possible. Felix’s way might be a 
good way after all. He put the letter in his pocket and, 
although quite unconscious of the fact, hummed an air 
of the town, keeping time with Antonio’s vigorous strokes. 

The gondolier was pushing through a network of 
back canals. The way was narrow and tortuous. It 
was the quarter of the poor of Venice. 

Ben missed the fresh air of the sea. The teeming 
population oppressed him. Once he cast his eyes up- 
wards to the top story of a crumbling old palace, now 
an humble abode of the poor. 

A handsome young woman with a wealth of Titian 
hair was waving at him. No! Surely not at him! He 
looked again. A little baby boy in her arms was throw- 
ing kisses. 

“Tinto mio! Maria ma!” Antonio’s voice echoed 
loudly between the high walls. 

“Look! Look! Signor. There they are! My lovely 
Maria and my little Tinto! Are they not beautiful? 
Why need you ask if I am happy?” 

All was somber below. A single shaft of sunlight 


50 





‘““ The gondolier was pushing through a network of 
canals.” 





= oo e 
of ; ae 
| 


. 
yi 
* 
on 
It 
* . 
f 
: 
i 
f 
« 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


illumined the little balcony. The mother’s head seemed 
crowned with a nimbus of shimmering gold. 

Ben never forgot that picture. He never was able to 
separate it from the problem of Felix’s life. 

As Antonio swung the gondola about a corner, they 
both waved to the two figures on the balcony and Ben 
once more absently hummed the song of the town but 
as he bade Antonio “ good night” and ascended to his 
room he found himself murmuring—‘“ Poor, dear, old 
Felix!” 


« * * * * 


When Ben arrived in Paris, his first thought after 
settling his parents at the Continental was to see Felix 
and the woman who held his destiny in her hands. 

After all, he thought as he crossed the Pont St. Michel 
and turned into the quay of the same name, Felix’s 
case may be an exception to the rule and being settled 
in life may be the making of the man—then that glorious 
canvas will atone for all. Yes; the end must justify 
the means. 

Madame Papillon greeted him with the information 
that both Monsieur and Madame Felix were out, so he 
took the key and climbed the long, winding stairs. 

He knocked as a precautionary measure; she might 
be in. There was no response, so he turned the key 
and opened the door. 

Yes; he found everything as Felix had described it 
in his glowing letter. The cold gray place had become a 
warm, bright home. The canary was singing merrily 


51 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


on the balcony. The little bed room with its bright 
tiny window garden; the cupboard and dining table all 
set in the studio. 

“Dear old Felix!’’ he murmured. ‘“ He never did 
things just like the rest of us and his way of settling 
himself for life may be best after all.’ Somehow Ben 
felt guilty of house breaking as he touched the bits of 
feminine wearing apparel hanging from the nails where 
his tweed suits used to hang. 

As he went on hunting for his patent leathers, his 
walking sticks and umbrella which had been hidden away 
in corners beneath and behind things, the feeling that he 
was an intruder and ought not to be there, troubled him 
more and more until he finally gathered up his belongings 
and started for the door only to stop again. The Psyche; 
how foolish of him to have forgotten her. 

There was the canvas with its face turned to the wall 
as he had left it on his last visit. He put down his — 
packages and swung the easel about so that the full 
light struck the canvas. He gazed long in amazed dis- 
appointment. It had not been touched since his last visit. 
He again remarked that the nude, girlish figure was but 
faintly indicated in charcoal. Again the marvelous beauty 
of that wonderful head with its lustrous loving eyes, 
enthralled him. All that was pure and noble in his nature 
was awakened. For the first time in his life a strange 
yearning seized him; a feeling that Felix possessed some- 
thing more than he. Was he ever to look into such a 
face and call it his own? 

There was a step outside. The door opened. 


52 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


“Felix!” He was startled at what at first seemed 
an apparition, so wan and troubled did his friend 
appear. The cold, bluish light of the great studio win- 
dow exaggerated the unusual pallor of his face. 

He greeted Ben heartily, but hurriedly, with much 
of the old time ardor, but he seemed possessed for the 
moment with but one idea, his eyes wore a frightened 
look. He brushed past Ben and crossing the room 
turned the canvas face to the wall. 

As Ben tried to utter a little speech on the pleasures 
of having a home, Felix wheeled about waving him off 
with a nervous gesture at the same time sweeping his 
left hand across his eyes, a movement which Ben knew 
meant agony of mind. 

“No! No!” he cried quickly “not now! I can’t stand 
it!” He started to cross the room, but turned suddenly 
and putting his two hands upon Ben’s shoulders said 
with lowered eyes, a quaver in his voice—“I am in 
trouble old man! Won’t you help me?” Help him? 
Had Ben seen that head of flaxen hair in a sea of fire 
he would have gone to him. 

Felix seated himself upon a stool by the table where 
he remained in silence for some moments, his face pallid 
and suffering. 

“She is gone!” 

Bacone?.” 

wes; gone!” 

’ Felix’s voice broke and his face sank into Hig! arms. 
A tiny café-noir cup—hers, fell to the floor with a sharp 
ringing crash. 


yo 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Ben relapsed into silence and filling his pipe went out 
on the balcony where he paced up and down smoking 
furiously. 

After a little Felix joined him as Ben knew he would, 
and told him all. How her visits to her aunt had become 
more and more frequent. How he had spent that first 
lonely night when she failed to come home, walking the 
streets of Auteuil and in the gray dawn going to the 
morgue fearing lest she might have met with some dread- 
ful accident. Now a week had passed and she had not 
returned. 

“T can’t eat—I can’t sleep! This place is a hell to 
me by night!” 

Felix shivered, there was a wild look in his eyes which 
Ben did not like. He placed a firm hand upon Felix’s 
shoulder. “Come; come; old man! You always excite 
yourself too much over things. Give her the benefit of 
the doubt. That aunt of hers may have spirited her 
away when she found that you were not a rich American. 
Confound them! You have only to say ‘I am an Amer- 
ican’ and the beating process begins. To them we are 
all millionaires. I will bet you that I have hit upon the 
cause of all the trouble. Now cheer up! I am coming 
back to-night to live with you awhile. To-morrow I 
will take you out to the Tennis Club where it is cool and 
quiet and by that time you will be in decent form to talk 
it over rationally. In the meantime you must have a 
long night’s sleep. Will you try?” 

“Yes old man; I will try.” 

When Felix awoke the next morning there was a genu- 


54 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ine ring of hope in his voice. Ben’s healthy view of the 
situation had given him a night’s rest, the first for many. 
days. 

The offer of green trees, mossy banks, some cool spot 
where he could think and talk reasonably was grateful. 

They locked up the studio and climbed to the top of 
a Porte Maillot omnibus. 

How they had learned to love these huge omnibuses 
with their massive gray horses driven as the Roman 

charioteers drove, three abreast. Often when inspiration 
was at a low ebb, they had cast aside the tools of their 
profession and had ridden on the upper decks of these 
ships of the thoroughfares. 

As they ploughed through the sea of teeming life, 
the petty difficulties of their work would be forgotten and 
they would view life in a broader more generous way. 

Faces would come up to them from the crowds on the 
pavements, from the windows of the entresols, from the 
tops of passing omnibuses; faces that in one fleeting 
glance would reveal romances, tragedies, poems. 

One day as the omnibus on which they rode pulled 
up at St. Philippe de Roule, there came out of the gray, 
damp fog, a rugged, Titanic face; deep furrowed, grandly 
melancholy. 

Felix caught Ben by the arm. “See!” he uttered in 
an awed whisper. 

“Yes; I see him!” There was deep reverence in 
Ben’s tones. 

Only an old man gazing intently downwards from the 
roof of a passing omnibus, yet the other faces became 


55 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


as putty or wood or the mist itself, such was the power 
of this gigantic personality. 

As the omnibus moved off and the massive, thoughtful 
face was lost in the mists, Felix seemed to hear the dron- 
ing of bees and locusts as he lay beneath the rhododen- 
dron bushes on the old Virginia plantation, reading “ Les 
Misérables” and “ The Toilers of the Sea.” 

_ This happened in the early days of their Parisian life, 

before Felix had fallen into the ways of the Quarter; be- 
fore the narcotic “truths ” of an absinthe inspired school 
had made havoc with his pet theories. 

He scoffs at Victor Hugo now. He is proud of the 
fact that he often dines only two tables from Guy de 
Maupassant at the Café of the Dead Rat, and that he 
has actually shaken Zola’s hand at Guilliamet’s studio. 

He also speaks proudly of being one of a crowd of ad- 
vanced thinkers over whom Rouvier presides, whose bi- 
weekly orgies at the Café des Ecoles are the talk of the 
Quarter. Yes; he even helped drag the butcher’s cart on 
the night of Duchatel’s chastisement. 

Even at this moment with an untold dread lurking 
in his eyes he enters a protest as Ben condemns Willette’s 
cartoons at the Chat Noir where they had dined only the 
night before. Ben was glad. Anything to make Felix 
forget his troubles. 

The sunny June morning was but half spent when they 
stood on the high river bank at Courbevoi hailing a 
boatman. 

The Tennis Club was the sole possessor of a green 
island covered with a luxuriant growth of poplars and 


56 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


willows. Almost hidden by verdure was the little chalet 
which served as a club house. Through the openings in 
the trees they could see the courts and white coats of 
the players. 

At this point the Seine becomes two streams. To the 
north of the island it flows sluggishly beneath overhang- 
ing willows, to the lock of Suresnes. On the other side 
it swirls and eddies along its own free way. 

The change of air, a sharp walk around the island fol- 
lowed by a shower bath did much for Felix as Ben had 
said it would. 

After lunch the two friends lighted their pipes and 
strolled to a quiet grassy slope almost hidden from the 
outside world by masses of transparent foliage through 
which the warm June sunlight streamed. The river’s 
lazy current rose and fell upon the pebbly beach at their 
feet. Ben was sprawled flat on his back. A drowsiness 
which he could not resist overcame him—his eyelids 
closed. 

Felix sat half reclining against a great tree trunk, his 
troubled gaze wistfully searching the vista of stream and 
bank. The sight of the river recalled the early days of his 
union with Lili. How they had drifted down this same 
stream in the mystic moonlight. How his senses quivered 
in a delirium of joy as he held her in his close embrace. 
How the burning passion of her love seemed to all but 
choke her as she tried to speak. The moist, languid lids 
and dark sweeping lashes half veiled eyes which swam 
with the intoxication of love—he rudely closed them with 
a torrent of kisses. 


57 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Felix sprang to his feet with a quick impatient cry 
which startled Ben from his siesta—“ Something must 
be done! Now! To-day!” 

“Just so; old man.” said ‘Ben, as he calmly filled his 
pipe. 

He seized Felix by his shoulders and pushed him back 
to his seat against the tree. 

“Sit down until I tell you something. I take it all 
back—I mean what I wrote you from Italy. I am sure 
now that you did the right thing. To be sure you did 
it in your own confounded rattlebrain way, but you love 
the little woman and I want to see you as happy as a 
king. As to the girl, I tell you she is true or those eyes 
speak falsely. Do something? Confound it! We will 
find her if it takes all summer, in spite of the avaricious 
aunt.” 

Ben’s voice had a peculiarly soothing cadence as he 
went on. 

“When I saw the old studio yesterday I felt strangely. 
I never believed before that I could have such feel- 
ings. I felt like a lonely wanderer on the face of the 
earth. JI found myself thinking that you had every- 
thing and I—nothing.” 

In the pause which followed, the distant sounds of 
the river life were almost drowned by the buzzing of 
a swarm of flies which moved in a circle above their 
heads. A boat came drifting along beneath the canopy 
of green leaves. As it drew nearer the low, seductive, 
half smothered laugh of a woman was wafted to them 
on the hot June air. 


58 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The boat crossed the vista, the oars were trailing in 
the river grass. They heard the same low laugh again. 
A pair of pearl white arms were thrown about the rower’s 
neck. 

Both men smiled as Ben whispered “ By Gad! It is 
little Boschet! How we will guy him!” His face sud- 
denly blanched as he sprang to his feet—“ Great Heavens 
Felix! What are you doing?” 

Felix reached the bank in three bounds. “Lili! Lili! 
O my God!” His cry of agony rang out over the water 
but before its echo came back from the opposite shore 
he fell face down in the rushes, his left hand clutching 
at his heart, his right fumbling with something in his 
pocket. 

As Ben tenderly carried his unconscious friend to the 
bank, a revolver fell from Felix’s hand and rolled down: 
the slope. 

Ben turned as it tumbled into the stream with a splash. 
“That was for the aunt at Auteuil!” he muttered with 
a grim smile. 

He rapidly set about restoring his friend to conscious- 
ness. Once the sound of a woman’s laugh was wafted 
to him from beyond the willows. 

He shot a terrible glance in the direction of the sound. 
Then his good face softened as his eyes fell to the white 
upturned face with a look of tenderness, love and pity. 
The look of the great, pure, noble love that man bears 
for man. 


* we * * ae 


59 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The affair on the river bank all but severed the 
strained cord that bound Felix to things mortal. His 
devoted friend was ever at his bedside. When the fever 
raged, when the torn and suffering heart all but ceased 
its throbbing and his life hung in the balance for days, 
Ben was always there—patient, affectionate, tender. 

When the students who relieved Ben from time to 
time found it impossible to quiet Felix, they would call 
Ben in from the balcony where with his pipe he paced 
restlessly. 

A few quiet words from the voice in which there was 
untold tenderness would cause the sufferer’s head to sink 
back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. 

Ben came to know each arch and gargoyle on the won- 
derful fagade of Notre Dame and ever afterwards a 
photograph or print of the cathedral were it ever so poor 
would serve to bring back vividly the days when he 
tramped and smoked and tried to map out a future for 
his friend. 

He had a deep rooted conviction, it had been growing 
of late, that somewhere in his friend’s subconscious mind 
an ever present fear of some impending danger was 
slowly but surely sapping out his life. These sudden 
failings of the heart action under stress of anger or fear 
as at the Tennis Club; suggestions gleaned from the sick 
man’s ravings; his very joyousness which seemed to 
sweep everything before it when at its zenith, was at 
times more lilxe an intoxication of the senses, a nervous 
exaltation which Ben noticed was nearly always suc- 
ceeded by a bitter reaction. 


60 





“ Ben came to know each arch and gargoyle on the 
wonderful facade of Notre Dame--” 





x 
* 


¢ 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


The doctor had said that on no account must Felix 
remain in Paris another winter. Open fields, fresh air, 
a complete change of scene would do more than aught 
else. 

When Felix had grown strong enough, they began to 
- cast about for some quiet spot in the country where they 
could settle down for a year. 


61 


Chapter VIII 


its way along the great National Route 

which follows the seaboard of Normandy. The 
dust-covered coach in question was of a dingy yellow 
color drawn by three hungry looking, white horses. The 
leader had a chime of bells suspended from his collar 
which jangled noisily as the diligence rumbled along. 

Inside was a talkative company of peasants returning 
from a neighboring market town. 

Outside were two passengers; a bloused peasant who 
chatted volubly with the driver in an unintelligible pators, 
and a young woman who sat upon the topmost seat, 
holding a Skye terrier which barked furiously at a savage 
looking shepherd dog guarding a flock of sheep in a 
neighboring field. 

The faithful shepherd dog stopped his rhythmical trot 
for a moment to gaze at this impertinent stranger, when 
the sheep broke for a field of young wheat close by. 

The shepherd uttered a weird cry and waved his staff. 
His dog scampered after the stray sheep with quick, 
wolfish barks and in a twinkling had them all back again. 

“Jack you bad boy! Aren’t you ashamed of your- 
self? Here! Lie down!” 

Jack had spoilt a beautiful picture for his mistress. 
The gaunt old shepherd clad in a great sheepskin cloak, 
his legs bound up in straw, with the sheep and landscape 
made a superb composition. 


62 


C a clear, spring day a coach was slowly making 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


While the clumsy diligence droned along, Alina Durlan 
found herself reviewing her first two years in Paris. She 
remembered that first day when she drove away from the 
St. Lazare Station into a world where. she could come 
and go unquestioned as her fancy prompted. 

The little home which she and a girl friend had made 
for themselves in a studio on the hillside of Montmartre 
was quite to her mind. 

It was a narrow little street, steep and winding, which 
started not far from the great Boulevard des Batignolles 
and lost itself high up on the hill near the old red wiud- 
mill. 

A street made for artists this, with odd little gables, 
stairways, unexpected gardens and courtyards. In one 
of the latter Alina found some fine horses stabled. 
The kindly stableman, pleased at her genuine admira- 
tion for his noble beasts, bade her come and work in the 
stable yard whenever she chose. Here at odd times she 
painted her first Salon picture—three of her huge models 
resting at noon-day. | 

She worked for the most part with her friend at the 
Académie Julian in the Rue St. Denis. It was a long, 
hard pull up the hill after the day’s work, but they were 
amply repaid in the extensive view which their little bal- 
cony afforded. 

At night they could see the sparkling lights of the 
great, throbbing city and as the fog lifted in the morn- 
ing, the towers of Notre Dame would steal through the 
river mists, while the gold dome of the Invalides glittered 
in the morning sun. 


63 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Unlike most artists, she went to the Louvre very sel- 
dom, not because she did not love all that it contained, 
but possibly because she more often found herself loiter- 
ing in the streets where she could study the action, bone 
and muscle of the superb horses in which Paris abounds. 

Her only souvenir of the Louvre was a copy of Paul 
Potter’s “ White Horse” which she made when the 
noxious air of Julian’s had become unbearable and it 
was too cold to work out of doors. 

They now and then went to the café chantants fre- 
quented by the working people. Their protector on 
these occasions was a raven haired painter of Sicily 
who had a studio in their courtyard. Like Alina he 
Was an animal painter and his devotion to her was 
like the dumb faithful devotion of a dog. Ragged 
in dress, he bore himself with the grace of a courtier, 
but there were times when her room-mate detected a 
quick flush on his cheek and a fiery glance beneath his 
dark brows which boded none too well for Alina. She 
was glad when she left Paris. 

When the first warm spring days came, Alina found 
herself longing for the fields, the woods, the sheep on the 
plain, the plowing, sowing and reaping. tte was the 
world of her horses. 

She knew that somewhere in Normandy, near the sea, 
Schock the great animal painter lived. She decided to 
live near him and work under his guidance. A fellow 
student who had worked under the great master pro- 
vided Alina with a letter of introduction which she held 


64 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


tightly in her hand as the diligence thundered down into 
a valley. 

“Hola! Hola! Arrétez! Stop I say! Specie of a 
hog can’t you stop?” 

Alina looked over the side of the diligence to see from 
whence came this voice, faintly heard above the rasping 
of the brake and cries of the driver who found it hard 
to stop his team on the steep incline. 

A tall old gentleman in corduroys and béret hurried 
from a by-road gesticulating emphatically. 

As the driver brought his team to a standstill he 
pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, at the same 
time nodding as much as to say, “‘ Yes; here she is, you 
see I have brought her!” 

The recognition was instantaneous. She knew the 
Master’s noble, leonine head so well, she had seen count- 
less photographs in the shop windows of Paris. The 
wealth of white silken hair, the piercing eyes beneath 
shaggy brows, the Titianesque features and patriarch’s 
beard. 

He helped her down from her high perch and gave a 
few quick orders to the driver about her boxes, then as 
he lifted his béret and said “ After you Mademoiselle! ” 
she started up the lane. Schock was reading the letter 
of introduction. 

“Our friend says fine things of you Mademoiselle! ” 
There was a kindly look in his deep-set eyes. “ But it is 
quite needless, I have seen your toile at the Salon. You 
are serious, I know we shall get on well together.” 


65 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The master detected the eagerness in her voice as she 
said—“ So you do think I shall paint some day?” 

“Yes; my child you will do well, very well.” He 
always called her “ my child” from that first day. 

They followed the lane for some distance, occasional 
breaks in the high mossy banks revealing the quaint roofs 
and gables of the village of Bréport which extends along 
the narrow valley to the sea. 

The afternoon sun sent great shafts of light through 
the poplars at their backs which illumined the gold 
weather-cock on the old Norman church and the sails 
of the little fishing fleet upon the beach. 

The village itself lay in a purple mist. Lines of blue 
smoke curled upwards from many chimneys. She could 
hear the crude song of a cowboy driving his herd down 
the opposite slope. 

At last he pushed open a latticed gate in a hip stone 
wall and they entered a huge courtyard in the center of 
which was a stone well-house with a conical tiled roof, the 
home of a family of pigeons. 

Beyond was an apple orchard and through its gnarled 
branches could be seen the warm gray walls of an old 
chateau. A number of thatched cottages and stable 
buildings were scattered about the court-yard. Alina 
noticed that the largest of these had great studio lights 
built into the roof and sides. 

The Master suddenly clapped his hands and uttered a 
peculiar cry. In a twinkling the air about their heads was 
filled with fluttering wings. The doves fought with one 


66 








Mere Fouchet. 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


another for the privilege of lighting on his head, arms 
and hands. 

The courtyard reverberated with the deep baying of 
hounds and the piercing yelps of terriers, Jack’s shrill 
little bark adding to the din. Dogs seemed to come from 
everywhere, and not dogs alone; strangely out of place 
in their midst ran a snow white cosset lamb bleating a 
welcome. A bay mare cantered from the direction of 
the stable followed by a tiny colt. Alina heard a hoarse 
croak above her head and an aged crow settled down 
upon Schock’s shoulder. This was surely the home of 
an animal painter. 

There were faces at the chateau windows. A group 
of bloused peasants watched them curiously. Several 
young women stood in the great doorway of the chateau. 

They wore paint aprons. One of them carried a hand- 
ful of soap and was washing a bunch of brushes. Alina 
had already guessed her nationality when the Master ex- 
claimed in excellent English—‘‘ Miss Durlan you must 
know Miss Dorothy Dolchester of London—a_ fellow 
pupil!” 

The English woman greeted her with a cold, colorless 
smile, but as they entered the great hall, five young women 
started forward. 

The Master rapidly introduced them: M’lle Schovatsky 
of St. Petersburg; M’lle Topsue of Denmark; M’lles 
Chauvin, Blanc and Meunier of Paris. Their greeting 
was more cordial than the English woman’s. Two of 
them had been in Alina’s class at Julian’s. M’lle Topsue 
praised her Salon picture. 


67 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She seated herself near a sunlit window while the 
Master hurried off to find his housekeeper. Her eyes 
roved over the lofty, heavily beamed interior. She loved 
the atmosphere of the place. All about the walls were 
ranged the priceless souvenirs of the great man’s life. 

When Schock returned he found her standing before 
a fantastic sketch of a jagged, medizval castle. She was 
reverently deciphering the bold, black quill strokes of the 
inscription : 


“To the comrade of my youth whom I love with all 
my heart! 
“Victor Hugo.” 


The Master looked over her shoulder in silence. There 
was a tender look in his eyes. 

“We were students together!”’ he murmured. 

“And does he ever come to Bréport? ” 

She turned upon him eagerly. 

“Yes; my child, and you shall meet him—ah, but he 
is old—we shall not have him long! ” 

“To teach the art of being a grandfather!” 

Alina heard a cold laugh at her elbow. She turned 
to meet Miss Dolchester’s colorless, doubtful smile. 

She was pleased when the Master broke in with—“ The 
Chateau is full now, I am obliged to put you with the 
good Mere Fouchet. You will take your noon meal and 
dinner with us at the Chariot d’Or.” 

Mére Fouchet’s thatched cottage was in a quiet, ferny 
lane, shaded by rows of Lombardy poplars. The door- 


68 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


yard was shielded from the road by a high hedge. In 
one corner was an old well house with thatched roof out 
of which red poppies and ferns grew rank. Before it, 
bucket in hand, the house cat purring against her faded 
blue apron, stood Mere Fouchet smiling a welcome from 
beneath her winged Normandy cap. 

She led the way to a chamber with immaculate linen 
and floor of tile. A rose bush framed the window, the 
place was filled with the scent of tea roses. It was a 
room after her own heart. 

“Mere Fouchet will be a mother to Mademoiselle!” 
exclaimed the Master as he turned to leave. 

“That I will! All that I have is Mademoiselle’s!” 
The time-seamed, honest face beamed with kindly intent. 
“Mademoiselle will find it dreary at this season. Later 
the Parisians come to bathe and Bréport is gay!” 

Alina shook her head. “ Parisians!” She uttered the 
word contemptuously. “ You do not yet know me my 
little mother. I want no Parisians! I came here to be 
rid of them. I want to live like a peasant and wear 
sabots and paint—paint—if I could only paint all these 
beautiful things!” 

Mére Fouchet’s face hardened. “ Ah my little one, 
would to God the Parisians had never come to Bréport, 
my little girl, my only grand-child might be with me. 
The Bon Dieu knows how carefully I guarded her, but 
she grew and grew and became a woman and beautiful. 
A Parisian artist—a devil—came here to paint. He told 
her she was beautiful. She posed for him in the garden, 
on the plain, on the beach—always posing. She was 


69 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


never happy unless with him. One morning I went to 
call her. Her bed had not been slept in. I have not 
seen her since. Mademoiselle I detest the Parisians!” 

Mere Fouchet’s chest heaved. A tear trickled down 
the wrinkled cheek. 

“ Ah Mademoiselle; it has been sz triste without her! 
I am so glad to have you! No! No! I will never make 
a peasant of you. You are too much of a lady for that, 
but you shall learn to wear sabots and cook a pot-au-feu 
and toss a crépe.” 

“You are a good little mother!’’ Alina seized a rough 
bony hand and patted it between her own. “ We must go 
to the village the first thing in the morning and buy some 
chaussons and sabots and woolen stockings. I shall need 
them all if I paint out in the rain this summer.” 


40 


Chapter IX 


towards the Chariot d’Or for déjeuner. Schock 

wondered as he took his way down the lane to 
Madame Fouchet’s chaumiére why his new pupil already 
interested him so deeply. 

“It is because she is serious,” he was thinking. “She 
is honest, one knows that when she speaks, yet she need 
not speak, her eyes are enough. Ah; Mon Dieu! how 
unlike La Dolchester. One has the charm of unconscious 
seriousness, the other the seriousness of selfish egotism, 
yet they are both Anglo-Saxons.” 

The Master’s reveries were suddenly checked by hoarse 
shrieks of laughter. 

“N’ayee pas peur! Marche naturellement!’ came 
from behind Mére Fouchet’s hedge. It was intermingled 
with a clattering of wooden shoes and the shrill barks of 
a small dog. In the midst of the general din he could 
hear a nervous rippling laugh which stirred in him the 
spirit of youth. Curiosity getting the better of dignity 
he did not wait to gain the gate, but mounted a big stone 
and peered over the hedge. 

“Ah; bonjour mon enfant! You are a true Norman 
—you wear wooden shoes.” 

Alina was ill-prepared for this interruption. She was 
gingerly crossing a pebbly walk, her cheeks were flushed. 
She brushed a stray, golden-brown strand from her eyes 
and turned to see from whence came the salutation. One 


71 


A T noon the artists were wont to turn their steps 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


of her sabots tilted over, she uttered the same nervous 
rippling laugh then vainly clutched at a bunch of tall red 
poppies and fell in the midst of Mére Fouchet’s pea vines, 
looking charming in all her disorder. The Master broke 
through the hedge and came to her relief. He quickly 
stood her on her feet, and readjusting her sabots said— 
“You need your Master at all times you see. You must 
walk so—and so—and so!” He took three gliding 
steps something after the manner of a skater. “One re- 
tains the shoe all the time with one’s toes my child. 
There! you are doing beautifully. You have quite the 
swing of a paysanne now. Mere Fouchet will never 
know your footsteps from Pére Boudin’s.” 

“Parbleu! If I couldn’t do that I wouldn’t be her 
little mother. Pére Boudin can deliver the letters after 
a fashion but his bad cognac goes to his feet.” 

Schock laughed as he seated himself for a friendly chat 
with the old woman while Alina went indoors to change 
her sabots for a pair of golf shoes. 

As she appeared in a short gray skirt and tam-o-shanter 
the Master exclaimed: “ Tiens! Tiens! A new woman, 
but still beautiful—marvel upon marvels! They are 
usually so impossible Mademoiselle. Enfin. We must 
be off to déjeuner.” 

The Chariot d’Or was an ancient structure of gray 
stone, and red brick of many shades. Its great court- 
yard had stabled the teams of the peasantry for many 
generations. Through its massive archway the old yel- 
low diligence rumbled daily. 

A vine-covered terrace extended along the front of the 


72 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


inn overlooking the entire market place, in the center of 
which was the Grain Hall. Beyond were the gray, mossy 
walls of the church of St. Martin. 

As they were about to enter the inn, a young woman 
sipping coffee at a table on the terrace attracted their 
attention. She wore a broad brimmed, straw farm hat 
tilted back on her head and was smoking a cigarette. 
There was a “fin de siécle” air about her, an almost 
insolent indifference to people and things which Alina 
resented. It was not the cigarette, she had become used 
to seeing the girls smoke in the Quarter. Perhaps it was 
the cold, colorless face which just escaped being pretty, 
and the suggestion of a cynical smile always lurking about 
the thin lips. 

“ Ah! finished already Miss Dolchester? ” said Schock 
doffing his béret. “ Are you going to desert your Master? 
There was a time when you always lunched with me.” 

Miss Dolchester flicked the ashes off her cigarette with. 
a doubtful smile. “ When we see the Maitre holding a 
young woman in his arms in the midst of sweet peas and 
poppies, we think it time to desert him.” 

The Master broke into a laugh. He turned to Alina. 
“You see we are discovered Mademoiselle. The enfants 
like to tease the old gray-beard, but I will have my re- 
venge. Nous verrons! Nous verrons!” he shook his 
finger playfully at Miss Dolchester as they entered the 
inn. 

The long, low dining room with its tiled floor, heavily 
beamed ceiling and row of sunlit windows had harbored 
a century of market day gatherings, where the cider of 


73 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Normandy took the place of water and the rough songs 
of the peasantry reverberated between the walls. 

It was a strangely mixed company that greeted Alina’s 
shy glance as the Master placed her beside him at the 
head of the table. 

The artists stopped a hot argument upon the merits 
of impressionism to greet the Master and new-comer 
cordially. Farmers in blouses were talking crops in 
hoarse tones. Two French pedlars were laughing bois- 
terously at the jokes of a third party who might have 
been a clergyman but proved to be a traveling magician 
who was to perform in the market place that night. 

At the opposite end of the table, separated from the 
other guests by some empty chairs sat a Frenchman of 
distinguished bearing, evidently of noble family. Be- 
side him was a man whose jet black hair and graceful 
gestures suggested the Orient. He wore but one outside 
garment, a robe of maroon broadcloth. 

A noble pair of shoulders and chest supported a still 
nobler head which, excepting the rather full lips and eyes 
might have been that of a Greek god. 

He was talking with his companion in low tones quite 
unmindful of the noisy company in the midst of which 
the two seemed remarkably out of place. 

Alina regarded them wonderingly. 

“A fine head, is it not? It fascinates one. It is — 
grandiose; but you must not eat cold soup,” exclaimed 
Schock. “He is a Hindu priest and his neighbor is the 
Comte de Baigneur the famous Sanskrit scholar. The 
Swami Savitarka is to be the Count’s guest at the Chateau 


74 





‘“ Where the cider of Normandy took the place 


of water—” 








4 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


de Silleron. Did you notice it the day you arrived? 
The diligence passes the great gate. Yes? A fine old 
estate. It has been in the family for centuries. A very 
old family the Count’s—descended from one of the Con- 
queror’s barons.” 

After they had reached the cheese and confiture a 
groseille they joined the artists outside upon the terrace, 
who were lounging upon benches, chairs, and tables in 
poses which suggested the inertia following a good meal 
washed down with good ordinaire. It was pleasing to 
see how quickly they hastened to bring a comfortable seat 
for the Master. 

His protest that, if his hair was white he was still 
young and needed nothing more than the rest, was of 
no avail, so he settled himself comfortably in the arm 
chair which they provided saying—“ If you will make 
a vieillard of me so be it mes enfants. But remember, 
when your hair becomes white like mine your art will 
still be young. It knows no restrictions.” 

“ Restrictions!” broke in Miss Dolchester with an 
ironical smile, as she scratched a match on the sole of her 
heavy walking boot and lighted a fresh cigarette. “ Re- 
strictions don’t pay in painting. Nothing—not even my 
conscience ever restricts my art. No, parbleu; a painter 
needs no conscience!” 

The Master greeted Miss Dolchester’s remarks with a 
prolonged “ Ah!” in which there was an inflection of 
disapproval. 

“Each must work out his salvation in his own particu- 
lar way. That reminds me,” he continued, with a mis- 


my 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


chievous twinkle in his eye. “ Mademoiselle Durlan has 
her own original ways even when walking in sabots; we 
can only guess what she will paint when she gets to 
work.” 

The students were laughing. Alina’s cheeks flushed 
pink. So Miss Dolchester has told them, she thought. 

‘Tf the Master guides me as well with my painting as 
he did with my sabots I shall do wonders,” she replied. 

“That you will! That you will!” said Schock in 
kindly tones. 

Alina had found at an early stage of her studies that 
to be a painter of horses she must also paint all out-of- 
door nature. So when the party on the terrace broke up, ~ 
she started off to reconnoitre the village. She would 
know each lane, farm, and hillock, as well as the great 
fertile plain above, before attacking anything serious. 

Back of the one main street which was paved, she found 
such a maze of lanes and paths, all leading more or less 
directly to the plain, that her afternoon was well spent 
when she emerged from a picturesque farm yard on to 
a smooth, hard highway which descended abruptly vil- 
lage-wards. 

Great pink clouds loomed up behind the poplars re- 
minding her that the sunset hour was at hand. She 
climbed the high bank bordering the highway and threw 
herself down on the warm sod. She had reached the 
edge of the plain which stretched away to the blue sea. 

The clumps of trees which showed the whereabouts 
of villages, were for all the world like oases in a vast 
fertile desert. 


76 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She gave a deep drawn sigh of contentment. Not a 
jarring note in the whole-expanse. Not even a barbed 
wire fence, wooden house or iron wind-mill. She clasped 
her hands about her knees and sat idly biting the end of 
a long straw, wondering why she had stayed so long in 
Paris. Then she stretched herself at full length and 
gazed up at the great mass of clouds and beyond into 
infinity. 

Suddenly she started up with a fierce little scowl, all 
attention. She could hear a heavily laden cart moving 
slowly up the hill. The whip cuts and oaths of the driver 
grated upon her ear. Each cruel stroke went straight 
to her heart. She loved her dear horses, more than ever 
when weak and old. The most forlorn, jaded, broken- 
down horse that she had ever seen, staggered round the 
curve and came to a trembling halt. In an instant she 
was on her feet and hurrying down the bank. 

‘The cart was piled high with wet sea-weed. On top 
sat the driver nursing his wrath with low guttural mutter- 
ings as he vainly tried to light a cheap cigar with a wet 
match. 

Failing in this he vented his wrath on the poor beast. 
Blows rained thick and fast. Vile imprecations filled the 
air. The team was once more in motion, but only for a 
moment. Alina seized the horse’s bit and brought him 
to a standstill. 

“Sacré nom de—”’ The driver could hardly believe 
his eyes. The cart turned sharply on its two wheels and 
rolled into the gutter with a backward jolt that all but 
unseated him. 


77 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


A woman? By what right does she stop him? Weak 
miserables! Only fit to be beaten! With demoniacal fury 
the lash hissed through the air and left its trail of red on 
Alina’s neck, but only once. A figure clambered up over 
the wheel and a firm hand wrenched the whip from his 
grasp. 

“Fiend! Devil! Torturer!’’ The voice was resonant, 
terrible. The dark eyes that met his fearful glance 
seemed to burn his own shifting orbs in their sockets. 
And this red robe? It must be a priest! Diew me sauve!” 
He rolled back upon the sea-weed in cowardly subjection. 

The Hindu, glided down to the ground where he calmly 
waited beside the Comte de Baigneur who with his dusky 
companion had suddenly appeared by the roadside. 

The Count frowned fiercely. “ Hola Jacques Potin! 
Poltroon! Beater of women! Are you not contented 
with beating your own wife, that you must attack ladies 
on the National route? Down I say! Come down 
coward! ” 

As the scowling peasant slid down to earth, the Count 
caught him by the collar and pushed him towards Alina. 

“Quick! On your knees I say and beg her pardon!” 

Alina received the unwilling apology with set mouth 
and paled cheeks. Only by a quick fluttering of the eye- 
lids, a sudden indrawing of the breath through her teeth, 
had she shown that she felt the peasant’s whiplash. Now 
as they stood face to face, a sudden, unaccountable fear 
seized her. Where had she seen this face before? - 

Potin uttered a cry as the Count jerked him back- 


78 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


wards. His eyes started forward as from strangulation. 
The Champagne, the surging crowd of steerage passen- 
gers, two writhing bodies upon the deck—she saw it all 
again. 

The Count was speaking. “A rare fellow to have on 
one’s estate! Remember imbécile what I say—here— 
now! You vacate the farm in six months and further- 
more you leave the village for good! Do you under- 
stand? Pitch off half of that sea-weed and come back 
for the rest in the morning.” ; 

They stood silently by while Potin doggedly obeyed 
his master. The old horse was once more headed up hill. 
Alina gave him a parting pat and rubbed her cheek 
against his nose. The creaking of the wheels broke the 
stillness of sundown. 

The Hindu turned to Alina with a look of deep com- 
passion, “ Will you permit me to bandage your wound 
‘Mademoiselle? It must be painful.” He spoke pure 
English. 

After disarming the driver he had stood in silence, the 
picture of dignified composure, his arms folded across 
his wide chest, his nostrils slightly dilated. 

He took her handkerchief and wetting it in a tiny 
brook by the roadside, with the aid of Alina’s silk ker- 
chief made a compress and fixed it skilfully in place. 

The Count’s courtly apology, made with all the grace 
of a French gentleman of the old school, brought the color 
back to the girl’s cheeks. He stood with bared head, the 
embodiment of all that is refined, distinguished. “I am 


79 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


chagrined that Mademoiselle should have met such mis- 
fortune at the hands of one of my tenants. It was 
shocking—shocking !” 

She laughed the idea to scorn. “Oh no! It was 
nothing. I took the risk. I always do when they beat 
the dear souls that way.” 

A radiant smile lighted the Hindu’s face. “ Ah yes!” 
he murmured in deep tones. “ They do not know that 
they have souls.” 


80 


Chapter X 


her meeting with Jacques Potin, Alina started 

off to her work in her sabots, swinging along 
peasant fashion much to the delight of Mére Fouchet 
who had finally taught her how to wear them. 

She was later than usual this morning, they had crépes 
for breakfast and Mére Fouchet had spent much time 
trying to teach Alina how to toss them. The batter was 
poured into the pan, and, as the underside browned, Meére 
Fouchet would deftly lift it with a knife; then, by a clever 
jerk of the arm the cake would fly into the air and land 
in the pan, the uncooked side down. 

Alina proved herself a poor house-wife from the Nor- 
man standpoint. Toss them she could, but land them 
in the right place, never. Each toss was followed by a 
hiss as the soft dough landed in the hot ashes. 

At last Mére Fouchet said “Give me the pan, my 
child. JI must cook the rest of the batter for breakfast. 
Never mind ma chérie, you will never have to marry a 
Norman, so it does not matter.” 

Two long stakes driven into the ground about two feet 
apart, marked the spot where Alina could be found at 
work any fine morning. The stakes served the purpose 
of an easel, the canvas being fastened to them with a 
stout cord. | 

Wherever one encountered these stakes, whether in 
unfrequented by-ways, vegetable gardens or woods, it 


81 


‘ey a crisp, sunny morning some six months after 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


was safe to surmise that at some hour of the day a 
painter would appear, unstrap his tools of trade, and 
relapse into that state of indifference to time and sur- 
roundings peculiar to artists. 

It was a snug corner, this working place of Alina’s, 
only a stone’s throw from the scene of her encounter 
with Jacques Potin. 

Hidden from the highway by a hedge of hawthorn 
she had a fine opportunity to study the subtle greens and 
distant purples of the great plain. In the immediate 
foreground was a plowed field where she would pose her 
horses. 

She had a plowing motive in mind—a pair of her 
massive friends in full action dragging one of the crude, 
Norman plows with its pair of blue painted wheels. 
The plowman, rugged in form and color, a forceful 
contrast to sky and hazy distance. In the middle distance 
she could see the chapel spire of the chateau of the 
Comte de Baigneur and the long avenues of trees sur- 
rounding the massive pile. 

This morning she kicked off her sabots as she reached 
the foot of the steep bank and climbed it in her noise- 
less chaussons. She hadn’t time to make the usual detour 
and it would be impossible to climb it in her wooden 
shoes. 

She stepped through the break in the hedge but stood 
transfixed as she uttered a startled ‘“ Oh!” whereupon 
two artists sprang up from their sketching stools in 
alarm, so suddenly had she come upon them. They all 
laughed nervously. One of the men approached with 


82 





The farm yard. 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


uncovered head. ‘ You must excuse us for taking your 
place—we never noticed your stakes!” 

“© that is all right! There is room for us all—besides 
you once did me a service! Here it is—the same old tam- 
o-shanter!”’ She tore it off with a laugh and held it 
up. “Do you remember?” 

“Ah yes, I remember!” Felix’s pale face lighted with 
a rare smile. 

“Oh!” broke in Ben. He plunged down into his 
inside pocket, “ Mrs. Van Kleer—I met her at Fon- 
tainebleau! She gave me this letter of introduction in 
case ” He blushed slightly, “in case I found you.” 

“Found me?” She raised her arching brows in sur- 
prise. ““ Have you then been hunting long? How very 
strange!” 

A crimson flush dyed Ben’s neck and ears as he 
handed her the letter. 

“Well—yes; I have been on your track for some 
time—a sort of private detective you know.” He laughed. 
“T promised her that I would try to find you. She thought 
something had happened to you. She saw you with 
Scali one night and——” | 

“Poor Scali!” Alina smiled. “She must have been 
alarmed. His clothes, though, are the worst of him. 
He is the best copyist in the Louvre. I suppose I really 
treated her badly but you are both artists, you know how 
it is when one gets down to work? Excuse me!” She 
threw herself down upon a big bunch of dry grass and 
quickly scanned the letter. 

The men resumed their sketching stools. 


83 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She frowned. The dark, delicately-penciled brows 
contracted. The red lips pouted. 

“Stupid! Stupid nonsense!” She tore up the letter 
and cast it aside. “I am so glad you have come!” The 
beautiful gray blue eyes gave them an honest welcome. 
“There are no men worth knowing here—I mean among 
the artists—only Schock. He is a dear though, you will 
love him.” 

“We didn’t come to study with Schock,” said Ben, 
“but we expect to have him look over our work now 
and then if he is willing—we are both figure painters.” 

“How delightful! Then you can criticize my plow- 
man. I don’t care that ” she snapped her fingers 
“for the criticisms of those girls!” 

Both men looked towards her canvas which was lying 
face down. 

“O no! That is only my paysage. I haven’t even 
started him yet. I only work here mornings. Schock 
works us hard afternoons. He is putting us through a 
course in construction. We work from animals in the 
court-yard. I tell you Schock is great.” 

There was no work done that morning. The paint 
boxes, canvases and umbrellas were stowed away in the 
bushes and she took them prospecting for subjects. She 
knew every pool and mill-wheel, everything worth paint- 
ing. 

They found motives in an abundance. When they 
reached the edge of the village of Silleron, Felix threw 
himself down beneath a hedge and pulled a sketch book 
out of his pocket. He instantly became absorbed in jot- 


84 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ting down with clever pencil strokes a scheme for an 
elaborate composition. So absorbed was he that he never 
heard an altercation which was taking place beyond the 
hedge. His companions heard it and curiosity impelled 
them to enter the garden by a gateway. 

“So they have evictions here as well as in Ireland!” 
laughed Ben. ) 

“Twill have no criminals on my land I tell you! You 
are unfit fora kennel! You have violated your contract— 
Go!” 

The Comte de Baigneur stood before the low doorway 
of a thatched farm house. Facing him, his clumsy arms 
gesticulating wildly, protestingly, was a peasant. 

Close at hand there waited a two-wheeled cart loaded 
with household furniture and farm tools of the meanest 
description. 

“Nom dun cochon! A man may beat his own wife 
if he chooses! Iam but a half year in arrears! Madame 
Tobin over yonder owes for two years! Curse the 
American hussy—she did it all!” 

Jacques Potin picked up his whip and turned towards 
the cart, but stopped suddenly at sight of Alina. With 
a cry of rage he clutched the whip and made a savage 
lunge towards her. A firm hand seized the peasant’s 
shoulder and whirled him about. “Go! I tell you!” 
The Count stood over him quivering with suppressed 
passion. 

Ben was nonplussed. Where had he seen the peasant 
before? Alina’s low frightened words set him right. 

“He tried to kill him on the Champagne!” She 


85 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


jerked her head towards Felix. “They must not meet! 
Quick! He is coming! Stop him!” 

Felix appeared in the gateway. “Oh Ben! Look 
here! Isn’t this a fine lay out?” He held up his sketch 
book. ‘‘ What is the row over there?”’ He tried to look 
through but Ben’s broad shoulders filled the opening. 
“O nothing! Only an eviction. Yes; that is fine! 
How jolly those poplars will come against that bank of 
clouds. You must paint it some day.” 

Miss Durlan was right. Felix would be no match for 
the brute now. Ben turned in time to see the cart rumble 
out of the yard and to hear the Count’s most courtly 
apologies. 

“TI crave your pardon, Mademoiselle, for this added 
insult. No! No! It was my fault, he was my tenant, 
but not now, thank God! He unfortunately goes only 
to the next village. JI wish it were to China.” 

“Ignorance is the mother of all misery! He will have 
his hell!” 

At the sound of the Swami’s deep voice Felix turned 
in silent wonderment. The Hindu emerged from the 
doorway where he had been a witness of the eviction. 


Chapter XI 


GC IENS! Here’come The Inseparables! ” cried 
M’lle Chauvin. 


“Yes, the villagers are already wagging 
their heads over them,” said Miss Dolchester with her 
cynical smile. 

“They say she goes to their cottage alone, 
M’lle Blanc. 

“Yes; but there is safety in numbers; they are three,” 
muttered Miss Dolchester. 

Schock’s class sat on the terrace of the Chariot d’ Or 
waiting for déjeuner. For some reason it was later than 
usual. The Master had not yet arrived. “ The Insep- 
arables,’ as M’lle Chauvin chose to call them, were cross- 
ing the market place. Felix and Ben listened atten- 
tively. Alina walked between them. She was telling a 
story, one could see that it was about horses. She was 
driving an imaginary pair. They had just emerged from 
the little by-road that led from Mére Fouchet’s cottage. 

The men always called for her on the way to meals 
and parted with her at the cottage on the way back. 

They laughingly called themselves “The American 
Colony.” To the villagers the trio had at first been simply 
“the Americans.” It was easier to designate them thus 
collectively as they were always seen together. 

One day a village gossip winked significantly, remark- 
ing “ There go the Inseparables!” and ever after they 
were known as “ The Inseparables.”’ 


87 


3) 


exclaimed 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


When the men began to hunt for a cottage Alina’s fresh 
knowledge of every lane and by-way had been invaluable. 
In the most sequestered lane of all, on the very edge of 
the town, they had found an untenanted cottage quite 
hidden from the outside world by a high wall of masonry. 

After much parleying the owner permitted them to 
enlist the services of the village carpenter, who cut an 
opening in the north side of the roof into which he set 
a large studio window, the upper story making a fine 
working room. 

Below they had a living-room, dining-room, kitchen, 
all in one. There were also two small bed-rooms with 
tiled floors. 

The studio was reached by an outside stairway at the 
gable end of the cottage. A walk of flat stones led from 
the house to an old green door in the high wall. 

The garden was an artist’s paradise. As Ben said, 
“ Herrick would have written odes to Julia here.” 

At the foot of the lane was the Chapel of Our Lady of 
the Valley. They had never seen such a chapel before. 
The rustic architect had tunneled into the face of the 
chalk cliff. It reminded the Americans of the houses 
of the cliff dwellers in Arizona. The little spire came 
up through the grassy field above. The artists could hear 
the tinkling of its vesper bell each afternoon as they sat 
in their walled garden. 

And so in the midst of these Norman orchards, Ben 
and Felix had taken up life again, a new joyous ring in 
Felix’s voice, a calm satisfied look in Ben’s kind face. 

Alina’s story amused the men. Their laughter filled 


88 





“ They had never seen such a chapel before.” 











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The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


the market place. As they mounted the steps Felix and 
Ben were received with better grace than Alina. Women 
have a way of making these little distinctions. 

“ Dites-donc Felix!” called Miss Dolchester as she 
made room for him upon the bench beside her. “I have 
something to tell you!” 

“ Ah! here come the Count and his Hindu,” said Ben 
as he and Alina threw themselves upon a low table and 
idly swung their feet. “I wonder what brings them to 
town? ” 

Alina had not heard his words. Her eyebrows were 
contracted. This cold assurance in Miss Dolchester 
annoyed her. It was not jealousy, she knew not the 
meaning of the word. The intimacy which Miss Dol- 
chester’s salutation implied was unpleasant. 

“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” muttered Miss 
Dolchester in low tones as Felix seated himself beside 
her. There was selfish intent, desire, admiration in her 
look. “I needed your criticism. You know I value it 
more than the Master’s. I am wretched, disgusted! My 
‘Invalid of the Cottage’ will never see the Salon.” 

“Don’t say that,” exclaimed Felix, “ you have such a 
fine start.” 

“Yes, but Madame Maréchal has been most annoy- 
ing,” she replied vexedly. “ Posing her in bed was a 
great mistake. She was far too comfortable. I had 
to shake her up every five minutes. She had a way of 
dozing off just when I most needed her. The last time 
I shook her she wouldn’t wake up,—she couldn’t—she 
was dead!” 


89 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Felix winced. He could not meet her cold, heartless 
glance. “ Poor Madame Maréchal,”’ he said compassion- 
ately, “ her sufferings are over.” 

Miss Dolchester’s face hardened. ‘“ You waste your 
pity on my wretched model. You have none for me.” 

Felix’s innate gallantry saved him. The pitiless eyes 
softened as he replied “Au contraire! The world has 
lost a great masterpiece. JI am sorry you could not 
finish your picture. It would have been powerful— 
strong.” 7 

“TI suppose I can start another,” she replied. “If 
that religious weakling had helped me keep the old lady 
awake instead of telling her beads all day I might have 
finished it.” 

The “religious weakling,’ was Madame Maréchal’s 
only daughter, a slender girl of sixteen with a chaste, 
spiritual face. Bastien Le Page would have painted her 
as a Jeanne d’Arc. Felix meant to paint her some day 
as the Virgin. 

The girl’s history was a page from the supernatural. 
The villagers accepted startling facts concerning her life 
with the simplicity of children. Madame Maréchal had 
always been deeply religious. The first great event of 
little Celeste’s life came with her first communion. 
Dressed all in white, the embodiment of spiritual purity, 
bearing the sacred taper, she walked in the immaculate 
procession. As they knelt before a wayside altar there 
was sudden confusion. A horse frightened by the flut- 
tering banners dashed into their midst. 

There was a quick cry of pain from little Celeste. 


gO 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


They found her white and silent on the ground. The 
crowd thought her white veil was her winding sheet, but 
she opened her eyes, then moved her arms. They tried to 
stand her upon her feet but the poor little limbs re- 
fused to do their duty; she was paralyzed from her 
waist down. | 

‘Madame Maréchal carried her darling home and 
prayed the saints and Blessed Virgin to save her. ‘They 
would; she knew they would; Little Celeste knew they 
would; but she became more and more helpless. 

The poor mother bethought herself of Lourdes. Won- 
derful cures had been wrought at Lourdes, but alas; the 
Pilgrimage was but just over and she could as easily 
have gone to the moon; for they were poor, very poor. 
One day a notice in the post-office attracted Madame 
Maréchal’s eye. It advertised a pilgrimage to the Sacred 
Pool of Sainte Mathilde some forty miles away. God 
was merciful; her prayers would be answered. She went 
with little Celeste. The villagers who accompanied them 
said they saw the miracle at the pool. Those who did 
not go knew that little Celeste ran and played like other 
children ever afterwards. 

“It was always the pilgrimage,” continued Miss Dol- 
chester. ‘If her mother could only be kept alive until 
next August. If she could only be dipped in the Sacred 
‘Pool. More the pity I say that she couldn’t have 
been dipped last week; she might be posing to-day,” she 
laughed bitterly. 

A sudden silence fell upon the company. All turned 
simultaneously. A funeral procession was coming up the 


g!I 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


street with muffled tread. It was a picture which they 
had often seen upon the walls of the Paris Salon but more 
often in this roughly paved little square, where the minor 
chanting of the choristers rang with a peculiar hollow 
quality between the stone walls. 

The cross was carried ahead; then came the venerable 
Curé, followed by the bier which was borne by two 
rustics. 

“It is the good Madame Maréchal,” said the Master 
sadly. “I have known her for twenty years.” He un- 
covered his head and crossed himself as the. clumsy 
peasants bore their burden past. 

“Little Celeste,” he said aloud, as the procession filed 
into the church, “ did you see her, Monsieur Felix? The 
only mourner? Was she not beautiful?” 

“More than beautiful, she seemed translated,” replied 
Felix. 

“A wonderful case, that of the little Celeste,” con- 
tinued the Master. 

“You surely don’t believe all this rubbish about her? ” 
said Miss Dolchester with a sarcastic smile. 

“Tt has happened in all times, in all faiths, in all 
countries, Mademoiselle.” It was the Hindu who spoke. 
He had been standing passive, immobile, with bowed 
head as the procession passed, but as he spoke his eyes 
seemed to glow with some psychic force from within; his 
sensitive nostrils dilated. 

“Nature is always harmonious,’ he continued. 
“Truth repeats itself ever and eternally. These things 
were done in Christ’s days, why not now?” 


Q2 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“A Hindu priest, and you believe in the relics of the 
Church of Rome?” Miss Dolchester laughed scornfully. 

“T believe in no church, I believe in no creed, I know, 
the infinite power of a man’s spirit over this ”’—he struck 
his broad chest a resounding blow. “ This force, this 
power of spirit—mind—if you will—over the human 
body has been demonstrated time and time again all down 
through the ages.”’ He stretched his index towards the 
church. “ Little Celeste has demonstrated it although she 
was heavily trammeled by superstitions and useless 
creeds. Your infamous wife beater Jacques Potin ”’—he 
turned to the Comte de Baigneur, “ demonstrates it each 
time he strikes his helpless wife, for each time the acid 
of his anger gnaws at the vitals of his wretched body. 
Ah, yes; a wonderful power is the mind, it can work both 
good and bad,” he exclaimed as he seated himself beside 
the Count. | 

“Come! Come! Felix!” Miss Dolchester joggled 
his elbow, “ One would think the acid of your conscience 
were eating out your heart!” she laughed mockingly. 

Felix was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, 
looking into vacancy. It was the same old fearful look. 
Ben saw it from where he sat. Felix had forgotten that 
Miss Dolchester existed. “I was only thinking,’ he 
replied as he sighed deeply. “ Ah, well, it doesn’t pay 
to think sometimes.” He laughed. 

A babel of voices followed the Swami’s words, but 
presently they were all listening to the Master. Like the 
patron’s ordinaire his genial presence brought the spirits 
of the mixed company to the same level. There was a 


93 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


humorous twinkle in his eye as he turned towards the 
Comte de Baigneur. “ Do you remember Papa Mourlot? 
He mended shoes when we were boys. They used to 
call him the Coward of Bréport. There is where he did 
his cobbling over yonder.” He pointed to a little shop at 
the end of the square. 

“Eh bien,” the Master went on. “ Papa Mourlot was 
afraid of everything. He would not go out after dark. 
He feared dogs great and small. If a neighbor raised 
his hand to scratch his head, Papa Mourlot would duck 
his own in fear of a blow. Sudden noises terrified him. 
The sound of a shot-gun would strike terror to his heart. 
He knew that some day a random shot would kill him at 
his bench. 

“The gamins of Bréport made his life a burden. A 
prince of gamins was Guibray. One day he stole his 
father’s shot-gun and loaded it with blank cartridges. He 
also begged a bladder full of blood from the butcher. 
‘When I break the bladder on the coward’s head, you 
fire the gun,’ he said to his brother. ‘ He will think he 
is hit, or I am a liar, parbleu!’ Papa Mourlot was peg- 
ging away at his shoe. Guibray stole in at the open door. 
His brother was just outside the window. Bang! went 
the gun. Into the air sprang Papa Mourlot. The blood 
from the bladder streamed over his face and hands. The 
gamuns shrieked with glee. ‘What a joke—the coward 
thinks he is hit!’ ” 

Miss Dolchester was laughing boisterously, but Schock 
raised his hand—* Attendez un instant! I have not 
finished! The cobbler crouched among his boots and 


04 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


lasts upon the floor. ‘Ha! ha!’ laughed the gamins—he 
thinks he is hit! he thinks he is hit!’ One of them crawled 
into the door and gave the cobbler a push. He rolled 
over. The gamins ran away with white faces—he was 
dead!” 

“Ah yes; I ran too!” exclaimed the Count, “and 
so did you, Maitre.” He was gently smiling at this little 
glimpse of his boyhood. “ It was my first lesson in meta- 
physics. It set me to thinking. Ah yes; a wonderful 
thing is the mind of man. Poor old Papa Mourlot’s heart 
was stopped by fear. Fear is the cause of most bodily 
ills.” 

As they strolled into the salle d manger, Ben studied 
the Count’s thoughtful, high-bred face and recalling sim- 
ilar heads in portraits by Velasquez, Van Dyck, or Hals, 
wondered if he could ever get the Count to pose for him. 

“IT am honored in being the President of the Society 
for the Investigation of Phenomena,” continued the 
Count as they seated themselves. ‘‘ You see where my 
first lesson in Metaphysics finally landed me?” he 
laughed softly. “ The Swami and I keep very busy. We 
came to-day to see little Celeste. Her cure at the shrine 
of Sainte Mathilde is on record. We had not heard of 
Madame Maréchal’s death. Poor child; we shall have to 
come again. We go on the Pilgrimage of Sainte Ma. 
thilde in August for further investigations. You should 
go too, itis most picturesque. It would supply a painter 
with a dozen motifs.” The Count smiled. 

“T think I will go,” said Ben. 


66 


95 


Chapter XII 


Felix, as he tossed his brushes on the floor with 

an impatient gesture. “I have struck bottom. 
I get there so often these days.”’ He began to pace the 
floor. “ Think how we used to drop in at the Boston 
‘Symphony rehearsals for inspiration.” 

““Yes,”’ said Ben, ‘and came home feeling that we 
could paint anything. You and I can’t do without music 
old boy, can we?” He laid aside his palette, stretched 
his arms and yawned. “I am afraid we shall have to 
make a little trip up to Paris, to hear the Colonne orches- 
tra just as a bracer you know.” 

“Tf there were only a piano or a melodeon in the vil- 
lage I might squeeze a little inspiration out of it myself,” 
said Felix. “Think what these poor people have left 
out of their lives, not even a wheezy church organ to 
tone them up on Sundays.” 

“ Terrible! Terrible!” said Ben, as he shook down the 
little stove in the corner and put on a shovelful of coal. 
“No wonder that their highest ambition is a rabbit stew.” 

“T would give fifty francs, this blessed moment, 
strapped as I am, for any old thing to play on,” said 
Felix. 

They started as the little bell hanging from a spiral 
spring over the door set up a clamorous tinkling. 

“Tl wonder who it is,” said Ben, as he jerked a stout 
cord which passed through a hole in the wall, an in- 


96 


a | TELL you I am painted out, old man!” said 





The Leper’s Road. 





The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


genious contrivance which enabled them to open the gate 
without descending from their studio in the roof. Felix 
started towards the door which opened on the outside 
stairway, but before he could reach it they heard three 
quick barks and a furious scratching at the door. 

The men’s faces lighted up with pleasurable anticipa- 
tion. “Alina,” they exclaimed in the same breath. 
_ When Felix threw the door wide open Jack came bound- 
ing in like an animated football. The little fellow knew 
where he was wanted. Dogs are keener than human 
beings in this respect. There were a few light footsteps 
upon the stairs and Alina stood framed by the doorway, 
her cheeks aglow, her hair in beautiful disorder. Her 
eyes sparkled, she was panting from healthy exercise. 
She brought good cheer and ozone into the place. 

“Jack and I are out for a run, won’t you come?” she 
said pulling off her knitted gloves and warming her 
hands at the stove. “ We ran all the way from Mére 
Fouchet’s. We came by the Leper’s Road, where nobody 
could see our contortions.” She laughed merrily. “ My! 
how we did race, didn’t we little boy?”’ She caught up 
Jack, who squirmed and slobbered her face in doggish 
ecstasy. 

The Leper’s Road was a disused lane, so called because 
hundreds of years before the lepers had used it in passing 
around the town. 

“Of course we will come,” said Ben. “ Felix and I 
were just longing for some music or almost anything to 
stir up the sacred fire. Felix says he would play a hand 
organ if he could find one.” 


97 


The HONOR. of the BRAXTONS 


Alina uttered a joyful little cry as she dropped 
Jack upon the floor and clapped her hands. “Oh 
boys! I have something fine to tell you! I have found 
an organ!” 

“An organ?” the men uttered the word in unison. 

ves, aft otra 

“Bless my soul, where?” said Ben. He was on the 
point of lighting his pipe, but the match burned itself out 
and scorched his fingers as he awaited her reply. 

‘At, SOtLeVilies: 

“An organ at Sotteville? You must be mistaken. I 
have passed the church a dozen times when mass was 
going on, but I never heard an organ.” 

“Ah, but you never looked in, if you had you would 
have seen it.” 

“Tt seems to me I heard a flute or clarinet one day 
when I was passing,” said Felix. 

“No, you didn’t, it was an organ,” persisted Alina, 
“your clarinet was the organist playing with one 
finger.” 

Felix laughed. “A one-fingered organist! By Jove; 
these people are primitive.” 

“They beat the Dutch,” replied Ben with a melodious 
chuckle. “ But who is this organist of Sotteville?” 

“Mere Colin.” 

“Who keeps the little café?” asked Ben incredulously 
“you are joking.” 

“No, I am not, I saw her playing yesterday. I went 
over to mass with Mére Fouchet. She says Mére Colin 
spent a year at an institution pour demoiselles, when she 


98 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Was young and learned to play the piano. She is the 
only person in the neighborhood who can read notes. 

““And she reads with one finger,’ said Felix, com- 
miseratingly. He was struggling into his sweater. 
“Great heavens! Think of the harmony hidden away in 
that old organ loft.” 

“We will open up a new world for them,’ 
from the depths of his red sweater. 

Felix seized his cap. The depression of a few moments 
ago was gone. Music meant so much to him. One idea 
possessed him—to reach the organ loft as quickly as 
possible. | 

“Tam going to Sotteville, will you go too?” he held 
the door open for Alina. 

“ Felix looks exactly as little Toto did the other night,” 
said Ben “ when we gave him the sou to buy a ginger- 
bread man and he fell down in his hurry to get to the 
shop.” 

Alina broke into a rippling peal of laughter, as they 
trooped down the stairway and out of the old gateway. 
As for Jack, he was anywhere and everywhere, barking 
furiously all the time. 

They turned down the lane to the Chapel of Our Lady 
of the Valley, then crossing the great high-road of Dieppe 
they struck into the wide fields, striding over stubble and 
earth clods with the swing of experienced pedestrians. 

Alina always walked between the men. Her move- 
ments were supple and free. Deep breathing, long of 
thigh, shapely willowy arms which swayed with each 
step, she was a picture of youthful grace. 


99 


’ 


said Ben 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The men were never uncomfortably conscious of her 
sex. As Felix said, she was “just one of them,” almost 
as much so as any of the boys in the Quarter. 

They loved her fearlessness. Her view of life was so 
simple. She thought all things good, as indeed they are 
except when the mind of man perverts them. In her 
desire to get at the truth, she often discussed subjects 
which would have brought a blush to the cheek of one 
less pure. 

Soon they were walking along the top of the great 
chalk cliffs, the peaceful Norman pastures on their right; 
on their left the blue ocean churned itself into white 
foam upon a pebbly beach fifty feet below. A rough path 
followed the shore at a safe distance from the edge of the 
cliff, occasionally coming to an abrupt stop, where a land- 
slide had scooped out a huge section of pasture. 

“Ha!” exclaimed Ben, “ Just what I was looking for.” 
He pointed to an opening in the cliff. ‘‘ The only place 
between Bréport and Sotteville where the beach can be 
reached from above. The Maitre says a deal of smug- 
gling went on here fifteen years ago, but the coast guard 
—there is one now—prevent it nowadays.” 

The guard paced by them with the spiritless tread of 
one doing his beat. Muffled in his military cloak, he made 
a lonely figure in a lonely landscape. 

“T would rather be a second-rate painter than one of 
those fellows,” said Felix as they climbed the rise beyond 
the Smuggler’s Gorge. They all stood silently taking in 
the wonderful panorama of sky, land and sea. Far beyond 
the rolling plain and rugged roofs of Sotteville, a great 


100 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


headland jutted forth into the blue sea. At its very end 
St. Margaret’s lighthouse glowed warm and white against 
the sky. , 

As they tramped on, the life of the plains showed itself 
in a mysterious, will-o-the-wisp way. The clumsy figure 
of a shepherd suddenly loomed up, from where they knew 
not. In a hollow his flock grazed peacefully. A little 
further on a bent old hag seemed -a part of the earth 
in which she was grubbing for roots. Her dingy clothes 
matched the dead stubble and ploughed field beyond. 

Still further along smoke curled up from a little hovel 
built into the side of a knoll, the shelter of a company of 
brick makers whose work had been stopped by the sudden 
frost. ! 

“They remind one of the prairie dogs out West!” 
exclaimed Ben. “ You can’t tell just where the next one 
will bob up.” As he spoke two young girls started up 
from the shelter of some tall matted grass and walked 
along the path in advance of them. At the sound of 
voices one of them turned. 

“Good morning, little Celeste!” cried Felix, “ what 
takes you so far from Bréport this cold day?”’ 

She smiled sadly. ‘Did Monsieur not know that I 
have lived with my aunt at Sotteville ever since Mama 
died?” 

“No, my little one, I didn’t,” replied Felix, “ but I am 
glad you have kinsfolk to comfort you.” His voice was 
gentle and kind. 

“This is my little cousin Marie.” she said simply, 
with a naive attempt to include all in the introduction. 


IOI 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She threw her arm about the slight girlish figure and drew 
her out of the path so that they might pass. There was 
something shielding in her action, a tone of compassion 
in her voice. Little Marie’s delicate face was lighted with 
a radiant smile, but her eyes were cast down with seem- 
ing diffidence. 

“You love your little cousin,” said Alina kindly. Then 
she uttered an exclamation of pity as the younger girl 
looked up. She was blind. 

Celeste saw the silent sympathy in the faces of the 
Americans. “ Ah yes, Mademoiselle. Only the bon Dieu 
loves her more than I.” 

“You must bring Marie to visit me at Mére Fou- 
chet’s,’ said Alina kindly as they passed on. “ Mére 
Fouchet will make us a fine galette.” ) 

“ Merci! Merci!’’ cried the two girls. 

“Marie loves galettes,’ said Celeste smiling. 

They made a pretty picture standing on the desolate 
cliff in their little white Norman caps, cloaks, red woolen 
stockings and sabots. 

“Tf we could only paint everything we see off hand, 
how fine it would be,” said Ben, looking over his shoul- 
der. 

“We had better take the main road into Sotteville,” 
said Felix, “ It will be the shorter way.” He was think- 
ing of the organ. | 

Soon their footsteps sounded sharply on the smooth 
highway. They passed the Chateau of the Duc de 
Marney in the outskirts of the village. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Alina. “I forgot to tell you. Mére 


102 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


Fouchet says the Duke gave the organ to the parish as 
a memorial to his mother. She died at the Chateau eigh- 
teen years ago.” 

“Ah!” said Ben, “that accounts for it—I wondered 
how it ever got there.” 

The village church stood at the apex of two converging 
roads. It was built upon a knoll, heavily walled upon 
all sides and approached by long flights of stone steps. 
The old pile was a relic of medizval days, built for pur- 
poses of defence as well as worship. 

Mére Colin’s little café with its thatched roof and 
swinging sign, was just across the way. 

Ben begged Alina to wait outside as a company of 
peasants were shouting over their cognac; but no, she - 
would have a glass of café noir, they made it so well in 
these little auberges. 

“Ah! Bonjour Pere Boudin!” cried Felix as they en- 
tered the low door. 

The old letter carrier of Bréport left his companions 
and saluted them effusively. “‘ Mademoiselle and the 
messieurs come a long way for their café!” 

“ And Monsieur Boudin also,” laughed Felix, “we 
come because Madame Colin makes it better than anybody 
else.” 

Felix’s timely compliment had the desired effect. Meére 
Colin willingly consented to ask the curé for the much- 
coveted permission to play the organ. 

As they left the café she turned to the noisy group of 
peasants. “Attention, gamins!” she cried, “not one of 
you leaves until I come back!” 


103 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“They are mauvais garcons,’ she went on talking as 
they climbed the stone steps to the churchyard. “ They 
serve me as they do the doctor; they sneak out of paying 
when they can.” 

They seated themselves upon the doorsteps while 
Madame hurried on to the Parish House. Soon she re- 
turned, red faced and panting, holding the key aloft. 

““Ah Madame; you are so kind,” cried Felix as he 
started to take it. 

“Non! Non! Monsieur.’ She clasped it tightly in her 
hand. ‘“ Wait one moment! I have a message! Monsieur 
the Curé thanks Monsieur Felix for his kind offer to play 
at mass next Sunday, but he says it is impossible as 
Monsieur is a heretic, but he can play all he likes this 
afternoon.” 

She handed him the key to the organ loft with great 
ceremony. “Here is the key; take it) Monsieur 
Amuseg-vous bien! I must go to my jeunes gens at the 
cates 

“So I am a heretic!” Felix laughed. 

“T will stay down here;” said Alina as the men started 
up the spiral stone stairway “I can hear better.” 

She wandered aimlessly about the dusky interior, tak- 
ing note of the curious offerings placed there by the 
fisher folk. A fleet of full rigged ships in miniature 
were suspended from the ceiling. The altar decorations 
of tawdry tinsel and paper flowers, seemed crude and 
barbaric but quaintly picturesque withal. 

The afternoon sun filtered dimly through windows, 
much patched and weather stained. The blues, reds, 


104 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


yellows and purples had reached the wonderful tonality 
that age alone can give. 

She spent some moments over the quaintly carved choir 
stalls and finally sought out a low, rush-bottomed chair 
within the shadow of a confessional box, against which 
she leaned her head. 

She could hear her companions moving about in the 
organ loft. Aside from this, the place was still as death. 
She felt the presence of the centuries which the little 
church had seen. She thought of the countless masses 
which had reverberated under the vaulted ceiling. There 
was a musty, stifling quality in the very air, yet it was 
soothing and satisfying. The nervous, active, garish 
world seemed a long way off. 

She never knew when the music began, but she became 
conscious of a sound like the wind blowing through the 
tree tops above Mére Fouchet’s cottage. Then the air 
about her throbbed mysteriously. It was a deep, vibra- 
tive note like the breath of some great spirit. Gradually 
with gliding cadence, making the sails on the little sus- 
pended ships above her head quiver, a volume of rich, 
full, harmony filled the place. 

The “Inseparables” were traversing Elysian fields. 
Their thirst was being sated by something dearer than 
the rarest wines of France. It is by vibration that one 
soul touches another and man attains his highest ideals. 

The vibrative torrent of harmony which Felix drew 
forth from the organ brought the “ Inseparables ” nearer 
together than ever before. 

Alina, alone in her dark corner felt it. Ben knew it 


105 


The HONOR of thee BRAXTONS 


as he pumped the bellows with the perspiration rolling 
down his cheeks. Felix—ah; Felix will know more 
later. Now he is a spirit soaring in other realms. The 
heretic is nearer the Great White Throne than the priest 
over the way can ever hope to be. 

Alina sat with closed eyes. When she opened them, 
two girlish figures stood spellbound in the aisle. They 
might have been two saints out of the niches above the 
altar. There was the same primness of attire, the same 
severe arrangement of hair, the same uplifted eyes. 

What was this mysterious, beautiful something that 
had taken possession of their church? ‘They had never 
heard anything like it before. Celeste’s softly curving 
lips were moving in prayer. 

Little Marie was sobbing for joy; sounds meant so 
much to her little darkened life. 

Celeste led the blind girl across the church to a little 
chapel near Alina. They both knelt in prayer. Some 
stray rays of sunlight stole in through the old window 
just above them and fell on their blond heads in patches 
of gold. 

All the joy, the aspirations which Alina experienced in 
the soaring volume of harmony, she saw intensified ten- 
fold in the faces of the kneeling girls. 

Celeste was praying aloud; Alina could hear her dis- 
tinctly ““O Blessed Virgin, Mother of Jesus, grant my 
prayer! Grant that little Marie may see as others see, 
the wonderful works of God!” 

Little Marie’s beautiful brown eyes were raised heaven- 
wards; the vox humani was chanting a celestial chorus. 


106 





Meére Colin. 





The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


The little face seemed illuminated, translated. Alina 
started forward as a joyful, ecstatic cry rang through the 
Grote cecste!~ Celeste! I see! I see!” Marie 
sprang to her feet and stood with uplifted face, reach- 
ing heavenwards with her transparent, tapering fingers. 
But the moan of despair which followed as she crouched 
upon the floor within Celeste’s tender embrace wrung 
Alina’s heart. 

“O God!” the child sobbed “ All is dark again! all is 
dark! but I did see! I did! I did! The bon Dieu knows 
iedid!” 

“Be at peace little one;” said Alina stroking the 
child’s head, “ perhaps you will see again some day.” 

“Listen!” said Celeste, leading Marie to a chair, 
“ Monsieur is singing. That is how the angels sing.” 

Alina settled herself beside them where she remained 
until the music ceased when she joined the men at the 
foot of the stairs. 

As they emerged into the sunlight, Celeste pushed 
Marie forward; she wished to speak her thanks, but all 
was lost in a succession of quick sobs. 

“Poor child,” said Felix softly stroking her hand 
“and will you come to Bréport for galettes some day?” 

“Yes Monsieur—but I would much rather see.” 

“That you will!” said Celeste gathering the slender 
form in her arms and kissing the sightless eyes. 

Little Marie clasped her intertwined fingers against 
her breast. “‘ Ah—the bon Dieu is good!” Her face 
lighted up joyfully “and shall I see the sky, the flowers, 
the sea?” 


’ 


107 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Yes, my little one, God is good,” repeated Celeste, 
and as they took their leave the two quaint little figures 
stood waving them a farewell. 

Leaving the key with Mére Colin they once more 
struck across the great plain. 

It had grown colder. The sparkling, silvery mists 
through which the late sun scattered rainbow tints made 
nature less earthly and more in tune with their own 
exaltation. 

The hour, distance, passing forms were as nothing to 
them. For some time they walked rapidly in silence. 
Grand inspirations, noble ideals were coursing through 
Felix’s brain with tumultuous rapidity. He longed to 
give expression to something great. “By Jove!” he 
cried so suddenly that a bird started up from the copse 
and sped away inland “I could paint anything if I had 
my brushes here this blessed moment.” 

“So could I” exclaimed Ben. 

“And I” said Alina fervently. 

“ Ah well—’” sighed Felix ‘ God knows whether I shall 
paint to-morrow or not, but we had a good time to-day 
didn’t we Alina?” He slipped his arm through hers 
in his boyish way. 

“T had a wonderful time!” said Alina with a world of 
meaning in her voice. 

Again there was a long silence which lasted until 
they were well on their way, then under the stimulus 
of frosty air and exercise their buoyant spirits broke all 
bounds. 

Linked arm in arm the trio strode on merrily carolling 


108 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


quaint peasant songs which Mére Fouchet had taught 
Alina. 

The shadows lengthened as they turned into the road 
above Bréport. The sun was sinking in the sea as they 
left the road and threw themselves down at the foot 
of a great stack of straw. 

It was snug and warm there and they spent some mo- 
ments in silence drinking in the opalescent beauty of the 
autumnal afterglow. They could hear the distant noises 
of Bréport far below. They knew when the diligence 
rumbled through the village. They heard the tattoo of 
the town crier’s drum. 

“TI wish we could live here always!” said Ben putting 
deep stress upon “always.” “This has been an after- 
noon to be remembered.” 

As he spoke, the sound of uncertain footsteps came 
from the highway behind them. Although they could 
not see the road, they recognized the old letter carrier’s 
voice. He and his companions had stayed too long at 
Mere Colin’s. The bad cognac had not only gone to his 
feet as Mére Fouchet had said, but to his head as well. 
The party of peasants were gossiping recklessly with 
loosened tongues. 

“A pretty little wench, the American 
voice. 

“They call them The Inseparables!” said another. 

“Ho! Ho!” laughed the letter carrier hoarsely “ The 
Inseparables! How may three be inseparable? It is the 
one of the straw colored hair I tell you!” 

“Mére Fouchet says she is virtuous!” said a voice. 


109 


99 
! 


said a husky 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Nom d’un chien! what does Mére Fouchet’s word 
signify! Is her own child not in Paris leading the life 
of a ——” The rest was drowned by their shuffling 
footsteps as they disappeared down the hill. 

A cruel silence followed. Alina’s face burned red and 
was buried in her hands. 

With a savage imprecation Felix started down the 
hill after the peasants. Ben was at his side in an instant. 
He seized Felix’s arm ina vice-like grip. Then he turned 
to Alina. “Shall we go on?” he asked gently. The 
men turned away as she rose to her feet. In a moment 
she fell into her accustomed place between them. 

As they turned to cross the green before the little 
chapel of Our Lady of the Valley, Ben stopped. His 
voice broke as he attempted to speak. 

“ Alina!” The tenderness in his tones made her catch . 
her breath and turn away her head. Quite unconsciously 
he held her hand between his own. 

“We have been living in a fool’s paradise. This sort 
of thing must not go on. They do not understand us. 
We must leave Bréport for your sake.” 

She turned upon them fiercely, “ No! No! Not that!” 
She reached out for Felix’s arm with her free hand. A 
pale imploring face was uplifted to theirs in the gloom. 
“Don’t I beg of you! Don’t break up this precious 
friendship! What matters it what these drunken 
wretches say?” 

“No,” replied Ben with infinite pity in his voice, “ it 
matters little what they think of us, but you—you are 

IIO 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


a woman. We couldn’t stand by and see this thing 
happen a second time without ‘ 

“Killing! quick and sure!” broke in Felix savagely. 

Alina shuddered. His voice was passionate, awful. 
His pallid, suffering face looked into her's. “So help me 
God!” he uttered in a hoarse whisper. 

“Amen!” Ben’s voice sounded through the still air 
like a deep organ note. 

They went on in silence, the only sound a crisp crunch- 
ing of the fallen leaves which littered the deserted Leper’s 
Road. 

Soon they could see the blue smoke of Mére Fouchet’s 
cottage curling up through the trees just below them. 

Alina stopped. ‘‘Good night!” She took Felix’s 
hand and then Ben’s. “ You won’t leave Bréport? ” 

“No!” replied the men in the same breath. 





Ill 


Chapter XIII 


beneath a pure white mantle of snow. Few of the 

peasants ventured abroad and those indoors were 
huddled about their little fires of colza stalks and fagots 
trying to keep warm. 

It was Christmas night; the coldest known in Nor- 
mandy for a quarter of a century. 

A bright fire glowed and crackled in the great chimney 
of the dining room at Silleron. The lights had been 
lowered; the fire sent its fitful, mysterious glow over the 
rich Henri Deux interior. 

Alina sat in a huge arm chair the picture of indolent 
comfort, her bare arms stretched carelessly forward in 
her lap. 

The ruddy light outlined the delicately poised head, 
round slender neck and gleaming youthful shoulders. 

“My little American is charming to-night.” The 
Master finished his creme de menthe and placed his glass 
upon a smoking-table which stood between them. 

“How could one be otherwise with such a charming 
host,” she replied with an upward glance at the Comte 
de Baigneur who stood beside her chair. 

“T, in turn am only charming because Monsieur Cush- 
ing would have me so.”’ He waved his hand gracefully 
towards a portrait which stood upon an easel near by. 

“T only painted what I saw,” said Ben smiling. “ You 
were an inspiration. I never painted a portrait so easily.” 


II2 


| T was bitterly cold. Village and plain lay buried 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


He stood by the fire smoking one of the Count’s rare 
cigars. 

Felix started up from a low divan near the fire “ Cush- 
ing is right!” he exclaimed vehemently. “A model 
can make or ruin a picture!” He was: thinking of the 
unfinished Psyche boxed up and hidden away in the 
cottage loft. 

“A model can certainly make the artist miserable or 
happy. We owe more than we can express to Ben’s 
model—he has made us radiantly happy. It was so 
good of you to have us here to-night,’—Alina turned 
to the Count. 

“Ah, Mademoiselle, I have lived in the States, I 
knew what the day meant to you Americans. Christ- 
mas in Mére Fouchet’s chaumiére? No; I couldn’t allow 
that!” 

“Take care Monsieur! Remember I am of the peas- 
antry; I wear sabots! ‘There are worse places than 
Mére Fouchet’s cottage!” she shook her finger 
reprovingly 

“T should say there were!” exclaimed Ben “On the 
plains of Arizona in a blizzard for instance!” 

“On Christmas Day?” asked Alina. 

“Yes; I was out among the Mokis with my cousin 
who was a member of a government exploring party. 

““We had found some beautiful prehistoric specimens 
and buried them in a cave. We took careful note of 
the spot, as the mule teams would come to take them 
away in the spring. 

“When we came to the village our interpreter met us 


113 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


with the ponies. We were surprised to find them all 
saddled and bridled. He said it would not be safe to 
stay longer, that the Indians had become hostile. Our 
lives were in danger. 

“The nearest and safest place for us was forty miles 
away beyond a range of hills to the northward. The 
temperature was falling rapidly. It was spitting snow 
as we came down the trail and started off on a bee line 
for Bald Eagle Cafion, the pass in the hills. 

“There was every indication of a blizzard from the 
north. We knew only too well what was before us, but 
chose the lesser of two evils and trusted the weather 
rather than the Indians. 

“The fall of snow was light at first and we easily 
kept to the trail, but later it grew heavy and we had to 
use the compass. As the day wore on the snow fell 
thicker and thicker. Such a storm I never saw before 
and hope I may never see again! We could easily have 
made the forty miles by daylight in fine weather, but 
when night set in the ponies were well nigh exhausted. 
We had to work constantly to keep up the circulation 
in our feet and hands. 

“A great wall of driving snow was all we could see. 
No hills. No pass. We toiled on into the night traveling 
always by the compass. At last we began to ascend 
and the wind blew a hurricane; we knew we had struck 
the pass, but it brought poor cheer. The wind sucked 
through the cafion with awful force. It became a struggle 
for life. 

“There was a blueness about the interpreter’s complex- 


114 





The Chateau. 








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The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ion that I didn’t like. I had to keep prodding his pony 
from behind. 

“ After awhile I rode ahead, my cousin taking his turn 
at the interpreter’s pony. We were coming to a turn in 
the cafion. I started to call out that. we were half 
through the pass, but a blinding knife-like gust swept 
through the narrow cut all but choking me. 

“My pony buried his head in the snow and braced 
himself. I dismounted and crouched behind him. When 
I turned to look at my companions my heart sank into my 
boots, they had disappeared. Dragging the pony behind 
me I retraced my steps. I found the interpreter and his 
pony fallen and half buried in the snow. He was un- 
conscious, the pony dead. My cousin answered my 
questions in a dazed way. He was trying to arouse the 
interpreter. Then to my horror he fell backwards into 
a drift and didn’t move. It was awful!’ Ben cast the 
butt of his cigar into the fire and began pacing the 
hearth rug. 

“I poured the entire contents of my whiskey flask 
down the throats of the two men and fell to chafing them. 
Then a sudden sinking horror seized me, they were 
freezing to death. A dull stupor crept over me, but 
I fought it off by a mighty effort. 

“T straightened up for a moment to beat my chest, but 
stood stock still. At first I thought I was dreaming. 
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Through the storm I saw a 
light. I knew of no house within ten miles, but there 
it was appearing and disappearing as the storm thick- 
ened or lifted. I cried out for joy and turned to my pony, 


115 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


he was down in the drift, dead. My cousin’s pony was 
still standing. As I caught his bridle he tried to drag 
himself out of the drift, but fell into a helpless heap. 
I turned and ran with might and main; once I fell and 
the numbness came on again, but I shook it off and 
kept on. The light grew brighter and brighter and in 
a few moments I staggered against the door of a house— 
yes, a house! 

“ At this point the cafion widens out leaving a little 
_pocket or valley which is a little green oasis in the 
summer. 

“Tf a burly Scotchman hadn’t staked out a claim there 
the summer before, I shouldn’t be here to tell you about — 
it. 

‘“‘T heard voices within. The door opened. The red 
whiskered, red faced Scotchman threw his pipe on the 
floor and caught me in his arms. I pulled myself to- 
gether on short notice and we soon had my cousin and 
the interpreter lying on the floor. 

“A little boy babe sleeping in a packing box filled with 
straw, born only an hour before, was the messiah who 
guided us there. If he hadn’t come that night, the cot- 
tage would have been dark and his star—that precious 
kerosene lamp would never have shone out into the night. 

“His parents asked us to name him. He came on 
Christmas night, he saved three souls so we named him 
Christus. Christus Cushing McDonald was his full 
name. What do you think of that for a Christmas | 
story?” Ben smiled and reached for a fresh cigar. 


116 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


As he caught Alina’s eye the blood mounted to his 
temples. If there is one thing a man loves above an- 
other it is just such a look as Alina gave Ben when he 
finished his story and then, he had discovered that what 
Alina thought meant a great deal to him. 

“The little babe could not have had a better name. 
Few people know the full significance of that word 
messiah,’ said the Swami. He had been reading an 
ancient vellum-bound tome at a lamp somewhat removed 
from the company. He crossed the room and stretching 
out his open palms behind him towards the fire raised 
himself to his full height. 

“TI love the beautiful story of the coming of the 
Christian’s Messiah, but there have been other messiahs. 
May I tell you of one?” 

“Yes! Yes!” cried all in chorus. 

“Very well;—There was once a principality of the 
Orient, where from time immemorial it had been proph- 
esied that a messiah would come to its people. It was 
furthermore recorded that this messiah might come in 
the garb of prince, merchant or pauper; when and 
how it was for the people to discern. The one sign of 
his presence would be the bringing back by him from 
the unknown, the spirit of a departed prince or princess. 

“There came tothe throne a great and mighty prince 
whom the sages prophesied would some day prove him- 
self the messiah of his people. 

“ All through his youth he studied musty volumes with 
his wise men. He spent his nights consulting the stars. 


117 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


His star was of good omen for at a great national fete 
he saw and loved the daughter of a visiting prince, the 
beautiful Princess Claudia. 

“With feasting and ceremonies he placed her beside 
him upon his throne. She ministered to the wants of 
his people as a sweet angel of mercy would have done. 
No hovel was too humble, no lonely soul too sick for her. 
Her gentle presence was felt throughout the entire prin- 
cipality. 

“It was in the little hut of a poor painter of dreams 
that she loved often to sit, for the marvellous fancies of 
his brush were as celestial visions to her. 

“The poor painter treasured the visits more dearly 
than the fine gold which she was wont to give him each 
day as she left. 

‘““ The painter of dreams was never seen at court. There 
were others; they called them court painters who imi- 
tated flesh, hair, satin, jewels and gold so well that the 
Prince had named them his own. They wore velvet and 
fine linen and sat at his feasts. 

“The painter of dreams was not envious. He was con- 
tented with his hovel, his ragged clothes, so long as 
the Princess came. He had never painted so well as 
when she sat and silently watched each vision grow 
beneath his master hand. But one day she did not come. 
The painter of dreams was heartbroken. The Prince tore 
his hair; the Princess Claudia was dead. 

“The Prince caused the remains to be placed in the 
ancestral vault. He called for his philosophers and as- 


118 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


trologers. His love for the Princess was great, great 
enough he thought to call back her spirit from the dead. 
Might he not be the messiah of his people? 

“The temple was crowded to the doors. The poor little 
painter of dreams sat in a distant corner. With incanta- 
tions and incense the Prince tried to call back the spirit 
of his loved one, but in vain. Alas! he was not the 
messiah of his people. He humbled himself in sack- 
cloth and ashes. 

“As for the painter of dreams, he could think of 
naught else than the Princess. She was ever with him. 
Her beautiful face he saw as a constant vision. He 
locked himself in his hut. He was not seen abroad for 
many days. He ate not and slept not, but painted always. 

““One day there came a knock at the door. He opened 
it and beheld the Prince accompanied by his courtiers 
and court painters. The Prince would fain know all 
whom his loved one had known. 

“He bowed his head, so low was the poor painter’s 
door. When he lifted his eyes he cried for joy— 
‘Claudia! Claudia! my beloved.’ 

“Shining forth in the dingy little room he beheld the 
spirit of Claudia. ‘The Messiah! The Messiah!’ he 
cried and fell upon his face. 

“*Verily our Messiah has come’ cried the wise men 
‘has he not brought back the spirit of our Princess 
from the unknown?’ They threw themselves at the 
feet of the painter of dreams crying ‘The Messiah! 
The Messiah!’ 


119 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


“Tt is but a daub without method; one cannot even 
tell how the paints are put on,’ said the court painters 
jealously. 

“The Prince arose from his knees in wrath. ‘It is 
spirit I tell you! One sees neither paint nor canvas! 
Begone miserable tricksters! Imitators of gold, satin 
and pearls! The spirit of Claudia lives, yea calls to me 
from yonder!’ 

“He took the painter of dreams to the palace and clad 
him in purple and laces. Upon the walls of the Temple 
he wrought mighty works. The people made pilgrim- 
ages from far and near to see them. They saw neither 
satin, pearls nor gold, but were led upwards to the God 
of Gods through the truths wrought by the Nation’s 
Messiah.” 

The Swami stood for a moment intently watching the 
faces of his listeners. 

“My friends, a messiah is one who brings Truth to a 
people. Truth is Spirit because it is everlasting. Do 
these self-elected disciples of so-called truth, these slaves 
of models who paint that in nature which dies and de- 
cays bring Truth? No! I tell you they are false 
prophets. The messiahs of the ages have preached, 
written, sung, sculptured, painted the spirit, only the 
spirit of man and nature which alone is Truth. 

“The man who is the slave of his model paints a shell 
—a nothing.” The Swami swung down his right arm 
with a gesture of contempt. 

“Right, he does!” Felix started to his feet with 
glowing eyes. 

120 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


True—true—all of it, but he fell to pacing the floor 
with troubled face. He loved this exquisite slavery. He 
hoarded the memories of his academy victories; they 
were the only bright spots in his Paris life. They had 
been worth achieving. He had won them by slaving 
from models. 

As he came to an about-face, the Swami caught his eye. 
The Hindu laid a kindly hand upon Felix’s shoulder. 
“There are depths to your nature that you know not 
of. You will grow. Time will tell.” 

—limer Yes; of course. But have I time?” Felix 
seemed to address himself rather than the Swami. He 
brushed his hand across his eyes and turned to the 
piano, where he seated himself in a fit of abstraction, 
absently running his fingers over the keys. 

Presently he swung off into the fire music of the Val- 
kyrie and after a little, relapsed into the more sooth- 
ing cadence of familiar Christmas carols. As he played 
the opening’ bars of Adam’s Noel, Ben instinctively 
joined in, his big barytone voice filling every nook and 
corner of the great dining hall— 


“Lo the Lord of Heaven 
Hath to mortals given, 
Life forever more.” 


Alina brushed away a tear when they finished and 
held up her two hands to the men as they passed her 
chair. “Thanks boys! It was so beautiful!” she 
murmured. 

At Alina’s request and after she had been bundled up 


I2I 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


in a shawl, the Count piloted them over the Chateau, tell- 
ing them the story of each room and hall. It was a 
long journey and one that presented pictures and legends 
at every turn. There was an added charm in seeing 
their host’s face light with pride and interest as he told 
the history of each scrap of armor and each piece of 
furniture. 

The passage-ways were cold. They were shivering 
when they came back from their tour of inspection, so 
they once more settled themselves before the glowing 
fire and the Count ordered some hot drinks. 

Felix and the Maitre had each to tell his Christmas 
story and it was midnight when Ben said they must go. 

As the Count was in the act of ringing for the car- 
riage, Alina declared her intention of walking back to 
Bréport with the men. 

When she came down all bundled up in Mére Fouchet’s 
widow’s cloak, looking for all the world like a very 
young Norman widow with very pink cheeks, she pre- 
sented Ben and Felix each with a newspaper to put in 
his dress suit front. 

“T wouldn’t have my two boys take cold for anything,” 
she exclaimed with a little grandmotherly air. “ Good 
night, Monsieur le Comte! Good night, Maitre! I 
am glad you are to stay over night. Keep him warm, 
Count!” 

Their “ gocd nights” echoed down the long avenue of 
' mighty oaks and their feet crunched the brittle ice as 
they passed out into the moonlight. Great masses of 
broken clouds sailed across the face of a cold brilliant 


I22 





Potin's Auberge by the Wood of Blosseville. 





The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


moon. There were quick, joyful exclamations as they 
encountered countless pictures of snow-bound huts en- 
veloped in the mystery of moonlight. Here and there a 
lighted window glowed warm and red, 

As they came out into the open, they noticed foot- 
prints leading away between the furrows of the ploughed 
fields. Felix stopped and examined the ground care- 
fully. “I thought so!” he exclaimed as he stopped and 
tore up a long piece of twine. 

“Poor little larks!” exclaimed Alina, “how they will 
suffer in the morning.” 

“Yes; every boy in Bréport has set his line of snares 
to-night,” said Ben. 

_ The patron will give us larks on toast; larks a la 
brochette; fricassee of larks; we shall revel in larks for a. - 
week.” 

“Not I—” exclaimed Alina—‘“ eat a lark? Why; I 
would as soon think of eating an angel.” 

“Let’s go by way of Blosseville,”’ interrupted Felix 
as they came to a fork in the road. “ The view from the 
hill will be stunning to-night; it is only a mile further.” 

They had the deserted highway to themselves and fell 
to singing. As they passed a hut, a night-capped head 
was thrust forth from a doorway in wonderment. 

“Tf we were on the other side of the channel he would 
toss out a penny for the waits,” laughed Ben. 

They stood for some moments on the hill above Blosse- 
ville, studying the marvels of a frosty midnight land- 
scape; then they plunged down the slope singing an 
English song, the melody of which pleased Alina, but 


123 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


the words meant more to the men. They were both 
singing it with more feeling than usual. 


“Since first I saw thy face 
I resolved to honor and obey.” 


Before them towered the rugged tops of a grove of 
pines. In the gloom at their base they could see a solitary 
flickering light, coming from the snow-banked window 
of a little auberge. 

In the silence which followed the song they could 
hear the soughing of the wind through the pine needles 
aloft, then a terrified cry startled their keen senses. A 
figure staggered towards them out of the gloom. The 
haggard face of a woman confronted Alina—* For the 
love of God come quickly Madame! My daughter is 
dying!’ She seized Alina by the arm. 

“Wait for me outside, boys! Perhaps I can help 
her.” Alina followed the woman. 

The picture within the hut was not new. There was 
the usual earth floor; a few crude chairs; a dresser; a 
table. The big box-like bed, a little house of itself, stood 
in a corner. 

With his back to the door hugging the fire, was a 
bloused peasant. He did not even turn as they entered, 
but muttered something more like a snarl than anything 
else. 

The only light besides that of the smouldering fire 
came from a tallow dip which burned within the bed. 
It sent little shafts of light out between the spindles of 
the sliding doors. 


124 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


“What is the matter?” asked Alina as the woman 
pushed open the doors with feverish haste and uncovered 
something at the foot of the bed. 

The mute reply came so quickly that Alina sickened 
and closed her hands over her eyes for an instant. It 
was a new-born babe silent in death, but when she turned 
to look at the mother she was pale and calm. 

The unconscious face upon the pillow was so young 
and beautiful as to startle her into an exclamation of 
surprise, even at this painful moment. She took the list- 
less hand in her own. It was cold; she could barely find 
the pulse. 

She hurried to the door—“ Quick, Ben! Your flask!”’ 
She was back at the bedside in an instant forcing some 
warming fluid between the colorless lips. 

She chafed both hands and feet and after a few mo- 
ments the long drooping lashes fluttered and lifted. 
The eyes that gazed up at her were of such surpassing 
loveliness that she looked and looked until the face on 
the pillow lighted up with a sort of recognition. The 
pallid lips moved. Alina bent her head and listened— 
“God’s angels! The bon Dieu has sent his angels!” 

“Send him for the doctor!” said Alina, nodding her 
head in the direction of the man at the fire. 

The woman shrugged her shoulders—‘ He refuses. 
He says it is too cold.” 

“Too cold!” Alina’s brows knitted. She started 
across the room with clinched hands. 

“No! No! Don’t do that! He has been drinking! 
He may hurt you!” The woman caught her arm with 


125 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


frightened face, but she tore herself free. With blazing 
eyes she was at his side in an instant tugging at the 
sleeve of his blouse. “ Will you kill your daughter? Go 
I say and bring the doctor at once! ” 

He turned upon her with a fierce cry and staggered to 
his feet, his face distorted with rage. She recoiled just 
for a moment. The bead-like eyes and scowling brows 
of Jacques Potin were twelve inches from her own. 
She recovered instantly, however, and met his gaze un- 
flinchingly, never heeding the great horny fist raised in 
air ready to strike. 

In that short instant a fresh fear seized her. Felix !— 
Potin must not see Felix! He must not even know that 
Felix is in Bréport! 

Her heart gave a joyful bound. The doctor! She 
would send Felix for the doctor! 

Suddenly as she started towards the door a light 
flashed in their faces. Felix was calmly lighting his 
cigarette just outside the window. His pale face stood 
out with cameo like distinctness. 

Potin uttered a savage curse; he recognized him in- 
stantly. Half blind with drunken rage he mounted a 
stool and reached for his fowling piece. It was on a 
rack above the fireplace. 

Alina thanked God for that one precious moment. She 
flew to the door, pulled out the key and quickly locked it 
from the outside. 

“ Quick! Quick Felix! Run for the doctor!” She 
caught him by the arm. “ The first house at the foot of 
the hill! Go—oh go!” 


126 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Then as he sped away she needed the support of the 
strong arm that was thrown about her just for a mo- 
ment. 

“We had better get away!” Ben nodded towards the 
door. They could hear the curses of the infuriated 
peasant within. 


* *K * * cd 


“Thanks dear boy, for going so quickly! The doctor 
is needed there badly.”’ There was a peculiar tender- 
ness in Alina’s voice that made Felix strangely happy. 
They had found him awaiting them at the foot of the 
hill. 


127 


Chapter XIV 


ing fire of revolutions. We have felt the 
oppression of Prussia’s armies, but thanks 
to the Republic, our glorious nation still lives.” 

Bellemaire, mayor of Bréport, stood upon the steps of 
the Mairie haranguing his fellow citizens. He wore 
the tri-colored sash of office. Ranged upon either side of 
the steps were the pompiers in their shining brass hel- 
mets and the sappeurs in their huge bear skin hats. It 
was the Fourteenth of July. The mayor had left his 
pestle and mortar, for he was the village apothecary, to 
deal out patriotism in allopathic doses. 

“We have had kingdoms,” he continued. 

‘Long live the king!” cried a voice in the crowd. 

Bellemaire lowered‘ his bushy gray brows threaten- 
ingly, but kept on. 

“We have had empires.” 

“Long live the Empire! Down with the Republic!” 
cried several voices in unison. 

“ But the Republic has always come back,” continued 
Bellemaire. “It is the backbone, brain, sinew of the 
nation.” He waved. his arms frantically. 

“Down with the Republic! Long live the Social 
Revolution! ” Felix turned quickly. A husky voice was 
in close proximity to his ear. ‘‘ But we celebrate just 
the same, don’t we? What would we do without fete 


128 


a Cs IZENS, we have passed through the cleans- 





“Tt was the fourteenth of July. The mayor of Bréport stood upon the 
steps of the Mairie haranguing his fellow citizens.” 





The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


days?” The corpulent owner of the voice laughed and 
slapped Felix on the back. 

“ Ah Rouvier—you here?” 

“To be sure! Why not? I must gainsay that igno- 
rant blockhead over yonder who expatiates upon this sur- 
vival of a rotten Empire. Nom d’un chien! Your Amer- 
ican plutocracy beats it by many lengths.” 

“Enough, Rouvier!” cried Felix with mock fierce- 
ness. “The American colony is on its way to buy 
materials with which to make an American flag. No 
slurs upon our Republic please!” 

“Tf the American Republic were one-half as charming 
as the American colony I would be content,” said Rou- 
vier, with his watery eyes fixed upon Alina. 

“Mademoiselle Durlan, allow me,” said Felix with 
some constraint. “ This is Monsieur Rouvier, an old 
friend of the Quarter. Cushing you already know,” he 
turned to Rouvier. 

“Know him?’’—exclaimed Rouvier as he grasped 
Ben’s hand,—*“ who doesn’t since that wonderful carica- 
ture which Stumpy of St. Louis made of him was hung 
at Mootz’s.”’ 

Rouvier, novelist, realist, anarchist, socialist, Bohe- 
mian; anything but the usual, had played an important 
role in that old life of the Quarter. 

Indeed, Felix suddenly remembered that Rouvier had 
sent them to Bréport. Rouvier owned a chalet half 
hidden by trees and vines up on the hillside above the 
stream. It was his habit to collect a few choice spirits 


129 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


of the Quarter and bring them to Bréport for the hot 
weeks. 

Felix disliked the way in which Rouvier’s glassy eyes 
followed Alina about. He would not have her know him. 
He began to edge away with excuses. 

“We shall be en féte to-night,’ cried Rouvier. 
“Come; all of you!” He laughed his fat laugh and 
winked. “ Felix knows how to work our latch string— 
Eh—olt poy!” 

“Olt poy!” laughed Felix as they left the crowd. 
“Rouvier always would try to speak English.” His 
face suddenly became grave. He remembered how much 
Rouvier knew of his own life. 

“Rouvier must be good company,” exclaimed Alina, 
“he looks so fat and jolly.” 

“Yes,” said Ben, “he is fat and jolly enough, but he 
lives the pace that kills. Did you notice how his hand 
trembled? It is the absinthe and other stuff. It plays 
the deuce with him. He has to dictate every word he 
writes. No; we mustn’t run with that set.” 

Something in Ben’s voice made Alina look up. She 
detected a look in the men’s faces which called up the 
memory of an October evening when they all three stood 
in the gloaming before the little chapel of Our Lady of 
the Valley, and she recalled the oath that the men had 
sworn. 

“Here we are at Madame Blondel’s,” she cried, ‘ we 
will rummage every nook and corner of the little shop. 
Turkey-red is just the thing. There’s a big roll of it. 
We can use it for a ground; sew on white stripes, put 


130 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


on a patch of blue cambric, stick on the stars and /a-voild 
the Star Spangled Banner.” 

They soon completed their purchases and were on their 
way to Mere Fouchet’s laden with numerous small pacl- 
ages. In a half hour the little garden presented a sight | 
such as would have gladdened the heart of any home- 
sick American. 

Mére Fouchet had borrowed a little sewing machine 
that ran by hand. She and Alina were sewing on the 
stripes. Ben was cutting out stars while Felix was 
sticking them on. 

The fact that their flag showed the stars and stripes 
upon one side only did not trouble them in the least. 

Felix was in the act of pasting down the last leg of the 
last star when they heard strange noises coming from the 
direction of the Chateau. A babel of voices singing, 
mingled with shouts of laughter and the beating of tin 
pans. There were calls of “ Where are the Americans? 
Where are the Americans?” 

“Tt is the class,” cried Felix, peering through the 
hedge, “and the Maitre is marching ahead with the tri- 
color like a drum major. There is Dolchester carrying 
the British flag and—goodness me—Schovatsky has the 
Russian colors and Topsue the Danish. Quick! give me 
that flag!” 

In an instant he was on the well house roof waving like 
mad. ‘‘ Now, three cheers for Old Glory,” cried Ben. 
All joined in including Mere Fouchet who did not cheer 
in time, but Jack barked so hard that nobody noticed it. 

It was the hour of déjeuner. The Master and pupils 


131 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


were on their way to decorate the Chariot d’Or in honor 
of the National Féte. 

The Americans joined the procession, which created a 
sensation as they entered the market place and halted 
beneath the great archway of the Chariot d’Or. 

The Master mounted the terrace and announced that 
his pupils, out of compliment to the French nation, had 
made the flags of their various countries with their own 
hands; that they would decorate the building at whose 
hospitable board they had sat for so many months. 

Felix found a ladder, a hammer and nails, some pieces 
of rope, and as the Maitre handed up his tri-color, some- 
body shouted—‘ La Marseillaise! La Marseillatse!” 
The Master uncovered his head and sang the stirring song 
of France in a quavering voice. 

There was wild enthusiasm as M’lle Schovatsky’s rich 
contralto voice followed with the grand Russian hymn. 
Then came the British, Danish, Swedish, and last of all 
the American anthem. 

Ben mounted the terrace and raised his flag. 

There were low mutterings, a few hisses when a gust 
of wind flapped the stars and stripes in his face, leaving 
the turkey red back exposed to the crowd. 

“Long live anarchy! Up with the red flag! Down 
with the American Plutocracy,” cried Rouvier. 

In an instant pandemonium reigned. A brick spun 
past Ben’s head and went crashing through the window 
at his back. 

From his perch upon the ladder Felix had seen the 
hand that hurled it. With a bound he was at the country- 


132 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


man’s collar and as Ben started to sing the Star Spangled 
Banner there was a splash accompanied by shouts of 
laughter. The clumsy peasant lay floundering in the 
horse trough. Felix was back upon the ladder in a 
moment. He was gasping for breath. His face was 
white, but he laughed with the rest in boyish glee. 

How often has a single voice sealed the fate of a 
nation. The guffaws of laughter at their countryman’s 
expense aroused the rustics’ good nature. Ben’s great 
barytone voice soon filled the little square, carrying them 
on with resistless power until the place rang with their 
shouts. 

Only one of them, an awkward, shock-headed, sullen- 
faced peasant shook his fist and muttered—‘‘ Down with 
the American pigs.’ He wrung the water from his 
bedraggled blouse and disappeared down a deserted 
alley. 

* * * * * 


As night came on, trumpet blasts, shrieks of laughter, 
the rhythmic tread of heavily-shod feet filled the air. The 
Grain House, usually the scene of hard-driven bargains 
over sacks of wheat, had been transformed into what 
seemed a fairyland to these toilers of the soil. 

Festoons of Chinese lanterns, great oil lamps, sus- 
pended from the rafters, sent a ruddy glow out into the 
moonlit square. 

Bellemaire, accompanied by the wife of a Paris notary 
summering at Bréport, had opened the ball with steps 
befitting his exalted position and the National Féte. 


133 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


There were blouses and sabots in plenty, freshly starched 
caps and gaudy ribbons. 

The Master was there with his class. 

“You do not dance, M’lle Dolchester ? ”’ 

“No, Maitre; not with such a herd as that.” 

“Wait until Felix asks you. Nobody was ever known 
togresist piclixes : 

“ Small chance of my dancing with him, you see he is 
otherwise occupied.” She shot a contemptuous glance 
across the room. 

Felix and Alina were vainly trying to catch the time. 
He had his arm about her wast. They laughed boister- 
ously as the rustic couples dashed against them, knock- 
ing them back each time. 

Finally they sped out into the middle of the hall. 
Felix had not been so happy for many a day. When- 
ever the laughing, honest eyes met his he would always 
reply with an indignant—“ Tired? Pshaw, no! I could 
never tire dancing with you. This is Heaven.” He 
whispered the last three words in her ear. 

“Humph!” said Miss Dolchester with a pout, “ Felix 
calls her one of them, just like one of the boys, and all 
that sort of thing. She doesn’t look it to-night. A 
woman who shows shoulders like that is not trying to 
look like one of the boys. Nay—Nay!” She waved her 
hanc negatively and laughed bitterly. 

She half closed her greenish gray eyes and pursed out 
her thin lips scornfully as a low feminine laugh came 
from the depths of Felix’s shoulder. 

“Bah! I can’t see any fun in watching these clod- 


134 





A Norman Market Place. 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


hoppers. Come girls!” She turned to leave, but her 
gaze became riveted upon another pair of eyes across 
the hall. They were set like beads beneath scowling 
brows. 

As a cat’s alert eyes follow the flight of a bird, these 
eyes followed Felix’s every movement with a look of 
malignant hatred. 

“Ha Felix! You have an enemy,” muttered Miss 
Dolchester. © “Sapristi! What a type! Ho—Pére 
Boudin! Tell me—who is yonder brute? Next the girl 
with the handsome eyes—I must paint him some day.” 

“Jacques Potin, Mademoiselle! He keeps the little 
auberge by the wood of Blosseville. A bon garcon 
Jacques! He gives credit. Many is the glass of fine 
that I have had at his expense. Enfin; Bonsoir Made- 
moiselle!” Pére Boudin made an obsequiocus bow and 
started for the door. Miss Dolchester followed in his 
wake as he pushed his way through the crowd. 

“You must be tired, Felix. There! I knew you were,” 
said Alina, as Felix caught his breath and seized her 
arm for momentary support. There was that in his face 
which made her follow his gaze with frightened eyes. 
Merciful heavens! Potin? and Felix had seen him! 
The scowling eyes met hers in hate. She involuntarily 
drew Felix in the opposite direction. She must keep 
them apart at any cost. 

It was not however Potin whom Felix saw, but Lili— 
“the girl with the handsome eyes,” as Miss Dolchester 
had chosen to call her. He had seen a look in those 
eyes that he feared more than hatred or jealousy. 


135 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Come, Felix! You are tired!’ Alina looked up 
anxiously. 

“Yes,” said Felix in a toneless voice, “I am.” But 
he seemed suddenly endowed with strength. He forced 
his way through the perspiring crowd with nervous haste. 

“No! No! I demand it! I must have this next waltz! 
Felix; you shall not have all!’’ The Maitre stood in 
Alina’s path. She cast an anxious glance after Felix as 
he quickly disappeared across the moonlit square. 

Poor Felix. In the heyday of happiness Lili’s star- 
like eyes had looked out at him from a sea of dancers, — 
just as they had done on that memorable night of the 
Mardi Gras. 

Like a cruel hand came the hated past dragging his 
cup of joy to the earth. Despair seized his very soul; he 
sought relief in action. Stumbling along over hillock 
and plain he unconsciously circled the town. As he 
rudely parted the twigs of a high hedge and was about to 
leap through the opening, the caressing sound of seduc- 
tive music greeted his ears. A sonorous contralto voice 
lazily droned a Spanish love song to the accompaniment 
of a guitar. 

There were countless lanterns and fairy lights set in 
the trees and shrubbery of a prettily bowered garden. 
Over against the thatched cottage sat Rouvier in an 
ancient, leather-backed chair studded with brass nails. 
Upon a quaintly carved table beside him was a huge 
punch bow! out of which a young woman was ladling an 
amber-hued fluid. She was a gorgeous butterfly of the 


136 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“half world” whose golden hair challenged the amber 
of Rouvier’s punch. 

Half-sitting, half-reclining upon benches and chairs, or 
lolling upon Turkish rugs which had been thrown upon 
the sloping lawn, were Rouvier’s friends. 

The men wore long hair, pointed beards, and volumi- 
nous cravats. They moved and spoke with the insolent 
bonhomie of artistic vagabonds. 

Bright spots of color indicated the whereabouts of 
the women. From the depths of the ivy-grown arbor 
close at hand came the melodious chords of the guitar. 
The singer now strummed, now laughed or broke into 
rich bursts of song in which the company joined as it 
suited their mood. 

Fleeing from himself and the consequences of an ir- 
revocable past, Felix greeted the scene with a cry in 
which there was an unmistakable ring of reckless joy. 
Here he would bury the past for a time at least. 

A shout went up as his pale, surprised face peered 
through the hedge, looking ghastly in the light of a green 
paper lantern suspended from a limb just above his 
head. 

“Sacrébleu! Felix; would you be Hamlet or the 
ghost? You will pass for either,’”’ cried Rouvier with his 
corpulent chuckle. 

“ Come—Come—olt poy! We will have only joy, song 
and love at Sans Souct.” 

“Ho Clarisse!” he cried as Felix vaulted down the 
bank. “Fill up a cup! We will soon have his cheeks 


137 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


glowing like your tresses. MHere’s to the Revolution 
Sociale! Here’s to joy! MHere’s to Clarisse’s nectar 
which makes gods of us all.” 

Felix drank off his glass to the dregs, then another, 
another and another. 

In Clarisse’s amber-colored ambrosia danger lurked. 
Liquors, like people, are often good of themselves, but in 
mixed company create havoc. As the subtle poison 
numbed conscience, care took flight, and in its place came 
a moral oblivion to all save the revelry of the moment. 

It was not the best side of Bohemia into which Felix 
had carelessly drifted in his Paris days. To-night she 
once more held out her welcoming arms. 

One of the men produced a violin, another seized the 
guitar. They mounted upon the table beside the punch 
bowl and played a mad quadrille into which Felix was 
dragged. In Paris he had been the gayest, wildest dancer 
of them all. 

His partner, whom he had never seen before, danced 
with hoydenish abandon. As the quadrille came to an 
end, Felix threw himself upon a grassy bank breathing 
heavily. 

“ Well done, Felix! You dance like a demon. Here! 
take this, and this.”’ Clarisse stood over him with two 
brimming cups. He drank them off and the languor 
produced not only by physical exhaustion but by the 
punch as well, became resistless. 

Hoping to avoid the next dance, with an intense desire 
to rest, he turned to the vine-covered arbor. As he was 
about to enter, a well known voice greeted him. “ Ah, 


138 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Felix! So you, too, tired of the clodhoppers? You 
know where you are wanted. You see I am de trop.’ 
Miss Dolchester glanced at M’lle Schovatsky who was re- 
ceiving the ardent advances of a poet in corduroys with 
only too evident pleasure. 

The three were seated about a round table which was 
littered with glasses and sheets of music, for it was M’lle 
Schovatsky’s voice that had sent the old Spanish love 
song pulsating out into the night. 

Miss Dolchester’s face had lighted with pleasure when 
Felix appeared upon the scene. Her cheeks were pink. 
The eyes, usually so heartlessly cold, glowed with a sin- 
ister fire. The magic of Clarisse’s ambrosia, and the 
warm opalescent glow of the fairy lights, for the once 
made her singularly beautiful. 

With scant ceremony Felix threw himself upon a long 
bench. “Ah, yes!” he ejaculated with a frown, “I had 
enough. It was hellish! I was glad to get away. I am 
tired!’ He swept his hand across his eyes. 

“Poor boy!” Miss Dolchester’s voice was strangely 
tender. “Let me make you comfortable.” Before he 
could realize what was taking place he sank upon a soft 
wrap which she had thrust beneath his head. Again 
came the drowsy feeling, a delicious sense of irresponsi- 
bility, then—oblivion. He slept, he never knew how 
long, and dreamed of soft velvety fingers tenderly caress- 
ing his temples and hair. It was Lili. They were once 
more on the old studio balcony in Paris. The canary was 
singing madly over their heads. The deep booming of 
the great bell of Notre Dame de Paris filled the air. 


139 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Warm arms encircled his neck. Lili was uttering 

short, passionate protestations of love, words so dis- 
tinct as to seem real. They were real! He could feel 
the fierce pulsing of the breast against which his head 
was strained. 
_ Miss Dolchester’s face was close to his; her lips all but 
touched his own. All was quiet save her deep, quick 
breathing. The candles in the lanterns had burned 
out. The revelry had ceased. 

‘Moonlight filtered through the leaves in weird shapes, 
one of them lighted her face. He had never thought 
her even pretty, but now to his half-awakened senses she 
was possessed of a dangerous beauty, the like of which 
he had never seen before. 

“IT love you, Felix! Can’t you believe me? See! I 
will refuse you nothing! Would Alina do as much?” 

As the words passed her lips he started to his feet, 
dragging the clinging woman with him. With a curse 
he tore her arms from about his neck and threw her from 
him. His face was drawn and ashen. He stood over her 
quivering with wrath. “J will kill you! Yes, kill you, 
if you speak her name again!”’ 

At first she lay stunned at his feet hardly comprehend- 
ing his fierce onslaught. Then, slowly and surely beauty 
fled and in its place came a look of feline hatred and 
jealousy so hideous as to transform her into something 
loathsome, repulsive. 

With a sinuous movement she rose to her feet and 
glided towards the moonlit garden. She turned back 


140 





‘“ Rouvier owned a chalet half hidden by trees 
and vines.” 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


upon him for an instant only with a cold sneer. “ You 
will regret this!’’ and she was gone. 

He waited until he heard the click of the gate latch, 
when he heaved a deep-drawn sigh and turning to the 
hedge, sought the opening through which he had entered. 


He parted the branches with both hands and disappeared 
into the night. 


141 


Chapter XV 


upon the stone steps of a wayside crucifix. 
“It is too hot to walk much!” 

The night was wonderfully still, and they had aban- 
doned the walled garden for the hill lying between the 
village and the sea. It was always cooler there. 

The moon had been up for some time and they dreamily 
watched its silvery scintillating path in the sea. The 
men stretched themselves comfortably upon the steps at 
Alina’s feet. 

Moonlight is conducive to confidences. Felix talked 
of his early life. How his father had sold one of his 
last patches of woodland in order that he might go north 
to study painting. How that one year in New York 
‘ had made him all over, so that when he returned to the 
Virginia homestead he was restless and unhappy. He 
recalled how he had thrown open a shutter and gazed at 
the line of blue mountains while the locusts and bees 
sang their old fashioned song below. 

The spacious, immaculate room laden with the smell of 
old-fashioned flowers was so unlike his attic lodging in 
New York. The massive colonial furniture abounded in 
memories of his childhood, yet he had experienced a 
feeling of home-sickness. 

He had thought of his little room and the career he 
had mapped out for himself as he lay gazing upwards 
through his one scuttle window at the starlit sky. 


142 


“T ET us rest here!” said Alina, seating herself 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“My father was ignorant in matters of art.” Felix’s 
face clouded as he uttered the words. “ He called my 
academy nudes indecent—unfit to be seen. He was 
cruel—stubborn! He told me I was depraved—mad! 
I couldn’t make him understand that the greatest works 
of the greatest masters of all times were nudes. 

“He said that I—a Braxton, the son of a Virginia 
gentleman, had no decency—no modesty. That if I had 
been doing these things for a twelvemonth I had much 
better have stayed at home. He would not understand! 
To him the nude was naked—immodest—vulgar any- 
where, in a drawing or on the high road, to him it was 
one and the same. 

“He said I must make no more drawings of this sort. 
I told him I must make them, for I could never learn 
to draw unless I did, so he told me to go and shift for 
myself.” 

Felix’s voice quavered as he told them of the sad day 
when he bade farewell to “ Oaklands.” How old black 
Pompey, his caretaker from infancy had shed copious 
tears as he opened the plantation gate and waved his 
tattered cap. Then there were years of drudgery in a 
Boston lithograph factory where he saved enough to 
enter the Art School. 

Alina had never spoken of her early life, but now 
she told them how her parents had died when she was 
but a mere slip of a girl, her father under a financial 
cloud. 

A rich bachelor uncle had taken her to him as a 
daughter and it was on his stock farm that she roamed 


143 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


at will, cultivating a love for her dumb friends which 
lasted through life. 

An aged governess was her only mentor. Time used 
by most girls in finishing at the fashionable boarding 
schools was employed by her in riding mettlesome horses 
or in sketching the beasts she loved so well. 

Her earliest recollections were associated with the free 
and honest companionship of men, from the brusque, © 
Scotch head-stableman to her uncle’s club friends, some 
of whom were invariably at the farm. 

As she grew to womanhood, the social foibles and petty 
jealousies of women mystified and repulsed her. It is 
not strange, therefore, that she had fallen into the habit 
of choosing men as her friends. 

She gave a little laugh as she finished—* There, boys, 
you see what an uneventful life mine has been.” 

Felix had been listening intently. As she laughed he 
moved restlessly and lnoked up at her. “I wish there 
were more to laugh about in my past,’ he said in low 
tones. “I am going to confide in you and Ben to-night. 
I shall give up a secret that I have carried with me all 
my life. It will seem foolish to you, but it is terribly 
real to me. I have reached the point where I can carry 
it alone no longer.” He uttered the last few words 
slowly and tremulously. “ When I was a little fellow 
I had a little black boy named Joe for a playmate. His 
father had been my father’s playmate and my grand- 
father had owned his grand-father. We were rascals, my 
little Joe and I. We fished and swam and ran. One day 
we ran a race and I came in ahead, but fell insensible at 


144 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


the finish. Little Joe thought me dead so he ran in terror 
to my father, who sent a man galloping for the doctor. 
Before the doctor’s old chaise came bowling up the drive- 
way I had become myself again and was playing with 
little Joe upon the front stoop. 

““This doesn’t look serious,’ said the doctor as he 
climbed down and patted me on the head. ‘But we 
must look into the matter, friend Braxton, just the same. 
Bring the boy inside.’ 

“Tt is strange how incidents like this fix themselves 
upon a child’s mind. I couldn’t have been more than 
seven, yet I can recall the dreadful silence in which the 
doctor took his stethoscope, which, to my childish imagi- 
nation was an awful instrument and listened so long 
that I could hear my own heart beat. 

“ At last he looked up at my father. ‘I find no cause 
for immediate alarm,’ he said coughing under his hand. 
“I am glad to hear it,’ said my father and ordered me 
out of the room. 

“There was something about the doctor’s cough that 
made me think he had not told all. I could hear the 
drone of their voices through the open windows. My 
childish curiosity overcame all scruples; I crept up to a 
huge rhododendron bush which covered the lower half of 
one of the windows and listened. The doctor was speak- 
ing. ‘If he lives to be sixteen he will die at twenty-five. 
This is almost invariably the case with this peculiar form 
of heart disease.—Then my father came to the window 
and I fled to the hay-loft where I lay in silent dread for 
an hour. 


145 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“To this day the doctor’s death-sentence has been ring- 
ing in my ears. There are times when I forget it, and 
you know how happy I can be, but when things go 
wrong I give out here.’ He closed his hand over his 
heart. “It tells me what the doctor said was true. 

“When I found out my talent for painting I had but 
one desire, one end in view, to paint at least one great 
picture before I—before what the doctor predicted came 
true. 

“Ben knows how I started a ‘ Psyche’ in Paris; one 
that I had long hoped to paint. Quite by chance I found 
a wonderful model. She was an inspiration. I worked 
as I had never worked before. I even forgot the doctor’s 
sentence. I believed that I should live a full lifetime. 
Ah! I was so happy. 

“JT made a fine beginning; I attained my ideal in the 
head and eyes and—well I didn’t realize the truth then, 
but I do now, that my model was bestial, that the purity 
which my ideals had created through the medium of her 
beautiful eyes and face was not there. She no longer 
inspired me. I saw only the animal—the beautiful 
animal. By heavens! Yes; I realize it all now. 

“The doctor’s sentence says twenty-five; I am twenty- 
four. Can you wonder that I long to finish that Psyche 
so as to tell those who sent me out here on this scholar- 
ship that I am not an impostor? But I shall be game to 
the end. Never fear!’”’ He laughed carelessly. “ Don’t 
bother about it, old girl!” he patted Alina’s hand. 

She tugged desperately at a tall bunch of wild grass 
with averted head as she felt his slender fingers close 


146 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


about her wrist. She wouldn’t have him see the tears 
that were coursing down her cheeks, but he did see them, 
and experienced a rare subtle joy. 

If Ben felt anything, the merest tremor in his voice 
alone betrayed it as he struck a match upon the base of 
the weather-worn cross and pulled away at his pipe. 

“Nonsense, old man. You are letting a foolish super- 
stition kill you! The verdict of a back-country doctor 
down in Virginia.” He threw the glowing match from 
him with a gesture of contempt. ‘‘ You are foolish, 
crazy! You are letting a notion, an idea, hurry you to 
the grave. My God, Felix—how can you?” He spoke 
rapidly, fiercely. 

Felix sprang to his feet with a wild, impatient gesture. 
“How can 1? What a foolish question! Do you sup- 
pose I imagine this? I know it because I suffer. How 
can you call it a mere notion? Have you forgotten that 
day at the tennis club? Have you forgotten the weeks fol- 
lowing ?’’ He became reckless in his despair. ‘As for 
feeling things—imagining them if you will, the man 
who feels—lives. To be sure, he suffers more, but his 
joy, his love—Ah; you cold Northerners don’t know the 
meaning of either.”’ 

Something about Ben, his very attitude as he stood 
silently stretching out his arms towards his suffering 
friend, gave the lie to Felix’s words. Felix made a quick, 
impatient gesture as if to turn away, then with a torrent 
of sobs threw himself upon the ground at Ben’s feet. 

For a long time they spoke not a word. Ben stood 
over his prostrate friend with bowed head. Alina rested 


147 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


hers against the foot of the cross. The sound of the 
beating surf came up from the beach below and from 
the village the voice of a dog yelping at the moon. 

The bell of St. Martin’s throbbed out eleven melodious 
strokes. With a gentleness surpassed only by that ten- 
derest of hearts which the bronze effigy on the cross 
above them imaged, Ben knelt and casting a loving 
arm about Felix drew him to his feet. There was 
a faint rustling of skirts and Felix trembled as he felt 
a warm tearful cheek pressed against his cold hand. 
“We are going to help you, indeed we are! You know 
we are The Inseparables. You forget what that means. 
It means that the Psyche will be finished! It means that 
the scholarship will be vindicated !”’ 


* 2K 2 2K * 


“Was there ever such a girl?” said Felix as he and 
Ben turned away from Mére Fouchet’s gate where they 
had just parted with Alina. The despair had gone out 
of his voice. ‘“ No—there never was.” replied Ben. They 
walked home in silence. 


148 


Chapter XVI 


D EAR, sunny, joyous Felix. Alina loved him 


with a love deep and simple and frank. Had 

she been asked to define it she would have said 
“I love him because he is Felix; because he is always 
Felix and nobody else. I love him because he is boyish, 
impulsive, free. I love him for his very faults. They 
are the faults of a warm, generous, affectionate heart.” 

She loved him as naively as she had loved the head 
stableman’s little curly-headed boy on her uncle’s farm 
with whom she had played as a child. Now she knew, 
as she supposed, the story of Felix’s life. She knew 
what had made him grow paler and paler and more care- 
worn, while he bravely tried to be the same joyful, happy 
Felix. 

She thought of how precious the unselfish comradeship 
had become; how her heart had ached when she saw 
that sunny head bowed in agony. “No! No! No! It 
shall not be! It is all a cruel mistake. I will try to 
make him forget it. I will encourage him—urge him on 
with his work. The Psyche shall be finished.” 

She could not sleep. Repeated flashes of lightning, 
distant detonations of thunder, and at last heavy rain 
drops which splashed against the open window panes 
warned her of an approaching storm. She sprang out 
of bed, closed the windows, turned her pillow and once 
more burying her hot face in its cool depths tried to sleep, 
but in vain. 


149 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Dear Felix; she could still hear his deep drawn sobs, 
his despairing words. 

When the storm burst in all its fury she found in it 
a certain relief. As she lay there listening, now to the 
rush of the deluge upon the thatch, now to her own 
thoughts, a cry of distress from outside made her sit 
up all alert. Again she heard it and sprang from the 
bed only to stop and listen once more. She could hear 
Mere Fouchet’s harsh voice through the roar of the 
tempest. 

“Vile liar begone! You can stand the storm as well 
as Boudin’s ass tethered out yonder. You are less fit 
to enter here. Go beast! Begone I say!” 

Mere Fouchet was trying to force a bedraggled, shrink- 
ing form from the threshold when a firm hand seized her 
from behind. 

“Little mother! Little mother! Are you mad? Are 
you no longer a Christian? Have you no pity? Would 
you send her out into this tempest to be killed? Who 
is she? Why do you treat her so?” 

Barefooted, with distraught indignant face, clad only 
in her night clothes, her golden-brown hair tumbling in 
confusion about her face and shoulders, Alina stood 
before the old woman. 

‘She were better dead than living!” muttered Mére 
Fouchet doggedly. “She is the one of whom I have 
spoken. That was once her room.” She jerked her head 
in the direction of Alina’s bed chamber. “ She was once 
my grand-child, but now—Bah! she is of the canaille— 


150 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


a low strumpet unfit for you to touch—Stop! Stop! 
Mademoiselle you shall not! Stop I say! Would you 
be defiled? ” 

Alina had pushed Mére Fouchet aside and was trying 
to lift the wet, crouching figure. The old woman uttered 
a cry of indignation and pinioning Alina’s arms, pushed 
her back into the room. ‘ No! No! Mademoiselle; it is 
my right! You shall not!’’ She planted her ample 
form before the door with arms akimbo. “Go to your 
room! ” 

For a moment Alina stood regarding the old peasant 
with fierce eyes; then her righteous wrath found vent in 
words. With tightly clinched right hand raised in air 
she again confronted Mere Fouchet. 

“You shall not do this thing! If she goes out into 
the night I go with her! Do you hear? I go with her!” 
She stood with bated breath looking into Mére Fouchet’s 
eyes, the picture of an avenging angel. 

There came a blinding flash and simultaneously a crash 
so terrible that Meére Fouchet trembled and the crouch- 
ing woman upon the un cried out in terror catching at 
Alina’s gown. 

Mére Fouchet’s eyes fell. “ Ma petite; I couldn’t let 
you do that—Enfin—do as you will but I will have 
nothing of her.” She crossed the kitchen to the chimney 
piece, reached for a tallow candle, lighted it from the 
one burning upon the table and disappeared into her 
own bedroom. 

“Come!” Alina again reached down. The face look- 


I51 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ing up to her was beautiful but it bore the stamp of sin 
and suffering. “Come!” Alina drew her towards her 
own room. 

The tender compassion in her voice, the familiar cham- 
ber which had once been hers, brought tears to the wan- 
derer’s eyes. 

(As Alina lighted the fagots already laid in the fire- 
place, and the flames began to roar up the chimney, her 
visitor threw herself upon the hearth-stone. Hiding her 
face upon her arm she softly cried until Alina who had 
put on her slippers and wrapper, drew a chair up to 
the fire and leaning over, gently stroked the throbbing 
temples. 

At the touch the stranger started up—“ No! You must 
not! Grand-mamma is right—I am vile! Vile! I must 
go! I must not stay here!” but she caught Alina’s 
detaining hand between her own and covered it with 
kisses. 

“The bon Dieu has again sent his angel—his sweet 
angel! Ah Mademoiselle, have you then forgotten?” 

“ Forgotten?” With mystified eyes Alina looked down 
at the sad face. When at last the recognition came, 
there was something in her look which caused the poor 
creature crouching at her feet to cry out in agony. “ You 
know my vileness! You saw the evidence of my guilt 
that night! You do right to shun me. Ah; Dieu me 
sauve!” She threw herself upon the hearth-stone and 
buried her face in her arm. 

Tears of compassion welled to Alina’s eyes. She 
reached down and stroked the rain-soaked head. She 


152 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


had not at first associated these eyes weighted with the 
consciousness of sin, with those of the dying woman 
whom she had succored on Christmas night. 7 

Lili raised herself upon one hand while with the other 
she brushed away the wet strands of hair which clouded 
her eyes. ‘ Before God I swear I am not bad at heart! 
I was once pure! A beast came and took me from this—” 
She swept her eyes over the immaculate room. ‘ He 
promised me everything—that I should be his wife. 
Instead, he poisoned my mind, my heart, until I knew not 
what was good or bad—then he left me for another. For 
a time I knew only my own misery, then—ah—then: af 
She spoke with lowered averted eyes, her voice sounded 
soft and tender. “I met another—an American painter. 
He was good and true and noble. He adored me. I 
became his model, his constant companion. He had never 
loved before. He gave me his very life. He never knew 
my past—he never asked to know, yet he would have 
atoned for what he called his sin against me by marry- 
ing me. But I was still a beast. I was selfish, vain. 
He let me pose for his friends. My betrayer had hard- 
ened my conscience until I cared not how I made others 
suffer. My head was turned by the attentions of the 
American’s friends. One of them, a Frenchman, flat- 
tered me, tempted me; he hounded me by day and night 
until—Ah; Mon Dieu!” she pressed both hands against 
her eyes and once more threw herself at Alina’s feet 
moaning and sobbing. 

For a long time only the distant rumbling of the de- 
parting storm broke the silence, then Alina spoke. 


153 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“ And was the wretch who would have let you die 
on Christmas night your father?” 

“ He was; Mademoiselle! ” 

“And they condemn you alone for your sins? Pauvre 
petite!” 

There was a long silence. Again Alina stooped to 
look into the suffering face. The storm-beaten outcast 
had found a gentle haven at last. The thick dark lashes 
still wet with tears rested upon the moist cheek. She 
slept the sleep of exhaustion. Tiptoeing across the 
room, Alina took a blanket from the bed and gently cov- 
ered the sleeper. Then she blew out the candle and stole 
into bed. For a few moments she was conscious of her 
visitor’s deep breathing, then she slept herself. 


* * * * a 


When Alina awoke the next morning the sun was 
shining in through the window, falling in great warm 
patches upon the empty hearth-stone. Her guest of the 
night before had stolen away in the early dawn. 

Felix’s confession confronted her afresh. She yearned 
to aid him in some way. She could hardly restrain herself 
from omitting her café au lait and running to the cottage 
to comfort and encourage him. And then there was the » 
question of the unfinished picture and model and a thou- 
sand and one other things that she wanted to talk about. 
So when she had half emptied her bowl of coffee, she 
called Jack and started up the Leper’s Road at a run. 

She found the cottage gate ajar. Mounting the steps 
she passed through the open door into the studio. It 


154 





‘“The matin street of Bréport was paved.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


was unoccupied, but through a half-opened door leading 
into the unfinished attic she heard a sound of muffled 
voices. With a mischievous smile she gave it a gentle 
push. 

Ben and Felix stood looking at a large canvas still in 
its case, the cover of which they had but just removed. 
The case was tilted up against one of the big roof beams 
and the canvas caught the full light of the one small 
window, the rest of the attic being dark and mysterious. 

“No! No!” she cried, “ I have come to see it! I must 
see it!” 

Felix was endeavoring to bar her entrance. “ You 
know it is unfinished!” he said with a hunted look 
in his eyes. 

“That makes no difference!” she replied with a smile. 
“T want to see it.” 

She brushed past him and stood squarely before the 
canvas with her hands clasped behind. For a long time 
she stood thus; finally she turned upon Felix with a look 
which would have made any other man proud. It had 
in it the highest tribute that one artist can pay another. 
The silent tribute which places one on the highest pin- 
nacle of honor, while the other looks up as ‘a pupil to 
his master. 

Finally she turned back to the toile with half closed 
eyes and tilted Read, taking in the work with a pro- 
fessional air. 

Soon a puzzled look crossed her face, and she uttered 
a surprised “Oh! Now I have it! I knew I had seen 
those eyes before.”’ 


155 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Felix sank down upon a packing case in a dark corner, 
he was pale to the lips. This Alina failed to notice; 
she was recalling how these same pleading, star-like eyes 
had looked up at her from the pillow of an old Norman 
bed on Christmas night. 

She turned to Ben with a smile. ‘“ Do you remember 
how I caged the lion on Christmas night and Felix was 
angry because I wouldn’t let him beard him?” She did 
not wait for a reply, but went on with her eyes fixed 
upon the canvas. “ The girl whose life we saved had 
these same eyes.” Then she suddenly remembered the 
visit of the night before. “O boys! I have so much to 
tell you!’ “Only think; we saved Meére Fouchet’s 
grandchild on Christmas night. She came back to the 
chaumiere last night in the storm. Mere Fouchet was 
hard, cruel, brutal! O it is too awful to dream of— 
being an outcast.” 

The tears came to her eyes. “The dear little mére 
was doing it for my sake. She thinks me too pure to 
be defiled by the presence of her grandchild.” 

Alina threw herself upon a pile of packing straw. 
“Bah! it made me angry!” She bit fiercely at some 
straws which she was idly fingering. “Am I so good 
that I must stand by and see a poor suffering soul driven 
out into the storm? Driven back to sin? No! I couldn’t. 
I made Mere Fouchet let her in. The girl had not for- 
gotten Christmas night. She remembered my face.” 
Alina lowered her eyes to the straws which she had been 
unconsciously plaiting; her voice was low and compas- 


156 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


sionate. ‘She told me her story. Ah me; how could 
one sin with such eyes? ” 

Her own were again fixed upon the Psyche. ‘‘ How 
wonderfully like her this is, yes, wonderfully like her,” 
she repeated absently. 

Felix started to his feet and Ben began to pace the 
floor restlessly. 

“She said she had posed for Americans. Why Felix! 
She may have posed for you!” 

Both men were strangely silent. She cast a quick 
glance at Felix. 

“Merciful God!” what had she done? With a low 
moan she buried her flushed face in her hands. Lili’s 
story flashed before her in all its tainted sadness. The 
glaring truth confronted her in all its nakedness. Must 
she cast him off? Must The Inseparables break forever? 
What should she do? Each time that she asked herself 
the question she failed to find an answer, for each time 
his pallid, tortured face confronted her. 


* * * * a 


Ben’s footfalls broke the silence with peculiar poign- 
ancy as he left the attic closing the door behind him. 
When he returned from a two hours’ tramp over the 
plain he was surprised to find Felix singing at his work 
and in his face a contentment such as he had never seen 
there before. 


157 


Chapter XVII 


7 \HE walled garden was bathed in the reflex glow 
of huge vapory clouds that moved lazily across 
the sky. A hot July sun was sinking in the 

west. 

Ben and Felix sat quietly smoking before their cot- 
tage door. There was a sound of clattering plates from 
within. The men had not eaten at the Chariot d’Or 
since the day of the National Féte. 

Felix had decided the matter the following morning 
and Ben had fallen in with him, although he could not 
fathom the reason. They had engaged as cook an aged 
peasant woman who lived in their lane. She came and 
went with noiseless tread leaving her sabots outside the 
gate. 

Felix found the change most grateful. He had worked 
successfully that day and with two studies in oil propped 
up against the low box hedge, was begging a criticism 
from Ben. 

Little Celeste had posed for him mornings and after- 
noons all the week and the canvases were the result of 
his work. He had chosen two motives from the life of 
the Virgin. In one she sat working at a quaint embroid- 
ery frame against the old rose vine. In the other she 
stood as the Virgin of Wisdom against a hedge of roses 
holding a half opened book. Seven white doves fluttered 
about her head. 


158 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Celeste loved to pose, most of all as the Virgin about 
whom she talked incessantly. 

Once he stopped work and turning upon her laughed 
aloud. “ Praying for me Celeste? Dear me! I reckon 
you haven't counted the cost. I am beyond redemption. 
I am bad; very bad.” 

Celeste looked at him with surprised, incredulous eyes 
and shook her head emphatically. “Non Monsieur! That 
is not true. You are good if you are a heretic. But 
it is not only because you are a heretic that I pray for 
you. The Blessed Virgin is interceding that you may 
be well. I go to Our Lady of the Valley every morn- 
ing and beg her to cure you. It is so near.” She nodded 
her head towards the little chapel just beyond the garden 
wall. “ You should go and pray. You can be well and 
strong if you will. Look at me! I prayed that the water 
would heal me and it did.” 

Felix became grave. “ Ah, my little one; it cannot be. 
God knows I wish it could.” He sighed and drew 
meaningless hierogylphics upon the polished surface of 
his palette with a wet sable brush. 

“Tf God knows you wish it, it can be done, for he 
can do anything,” persisted Celeste with earnest entreat- 
ing eyes. 

“Ah well; so let us hope; there’s no harm in that,” 
and again he was lost in some problem of form or color. 

There was a long silence. “ You must do more than 
hope,” Celeste was once more speaking. ‘ Even believ- 
ing is not enough. You must know the power of God to 


159 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


heal. Our blind little Marie knows God’s power; she 
will be healed at the shrine where I was healed.” 

Felix looked up again from his work. He was study- 
ing her face. She looked the Virgin of Wisdom. “ And 
when will this happen little one?’’ He whistled softly 
and walked Lack a few steps to better view his work. 

“The second Tuesday in August, Monsieur.” 

“Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God 
as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.” 

Felix started and Celeste gave a little cry as the words 
uttered in rich vibrant tones broke the stillness of the 
garden. 

The Swami had found the door in the wall ajar and 
screened by the shrubbery had come upon them unawares. 

He noticed Felix’s eyes light with a glad welcome and 
motioned him not to put down his palette but to keep on 
working. “I bring you a message. We have some new 
manuscripts at Silleron. Come over and see them.” 

“You wonder that a priest of India quotes your 
Bible?” He turned to Celeste with kindly eyes. “ Ah 
my little one, I love truth wherever I find it and I had 
to seal and strengthen your little sermon with one of the — 
greatest truths ever uttered by Christ. It is this pure, 
child-like acceptance of truth that has transformed weak 
men into giants, slaves into rulers, painters into prophets.” 

His hand rested reassuringly upon Felix’s shoulder as 
he uttered the last few words; then he sought the cool 
shade of the little vine-covered arbor where he sat with 
bared head watching Felix paint. 

Felix never knew how long he remained there for, 


160 





A corner of Bréport. 





=, s 
” 
ieee - 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


stimulated by the Swami’s sympathetic presence, he 
worked with new hope, new strength. 

From time to time the Swami’s musical voice would 
blend in like a wonderful undercurrent of inspiration 
urging him on and on until when he turned away from 
his picture he found that the Hindu had gone, and the 
afternoon was spent, with long spindling shadows creep- 
ing across the garden. 

Ben came and stopped him. After the brushes had 
been washed and Celeste had departed they lighted their 
pipes and went over the day’s work with critical eyes. 

Their little domain was a world of itself. Only the 
birds and tall poplars could see within, so high were the 
moss-covered walls of their stronghold. Here they could 
work in plein air free from the petty annoyances to which 
the village gamins subjected them when they worked out- 
side. They had become unusually troublesome of late. 

“T really believe somebody is egging them on,” said 
Ben. ‘“ Why, that little girl of the blacksmith’s was al- 
ways a treasure and to-day she scowled like a little imp 
and spat at me when I offered her a sou.” 

“T have noticed it too,” said Felix. “Who do you 
suppose is setting them against us? Hello! What is 
that?” 

Ben took his pipe out of his mouth and listened. They 
- heard the sound of many children’s voices shouting and 
jeering, accompanied by the rattling of tin cans and the 
sharp yelps of a dog. 

“That sounds wonderfully like Jack,” said Ben as they 
turned to the gate. “ What can they be up to?” 


161 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


As he lifted the latch and swung the gate open, Jack 
came dashing in with his tail between his legs, an old 
coffee pot dangling from his collar. He was followed 
by Alina dragging a screaming urchin by the collar of 
his torn and dirty shirt. Her usually calm face was red 
with righteous indignation. 

“What shall we do with him? He has been stoning 
Jack.” 

“Here Ben! Take him! Look out! He kicks like 
axsteer 17 

Ben held the boy out at arm’s length while he gyrated 
about, kicking and fuming in vain. 

“We can’t punish him,” said Ben, “his parents would 
stone us if we did. I will take him to Bellemaire; they 
fear the Mayor more than they do us.” 

“Here Felix—take my pipe! Now Alina; I want 
you for witness. Bring along Jack and the coffee pot.” 

Before they had reached the market place where was 
Bellemaire’s little chemist shop, all the gamins of Bre- 
port had fallen into the ranks of this remarkable pro- 
cession. 

Bellemaire greeted them with kindly, twinkling eyes 
although his bushy brows looked fierce and foreboding. 
He stood resting both hands upon the counter with a 
formidable array of antiquated pots, jars, and scales about 
him. 

“The Americans are in trouble! What can I do for 
them? The gamins have stoned Mademoiselle’s dog? 
Shocking! Attendez!” 

He drew them all out to the front door step where 
their followers had congregated—“ Listen gamins!”’ his 


162 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


eyebrows looked fiercer than ever as he addressed the 
open-mouthed crowd. “The Americans are our peaceful 
guests. He who annoys them again goes to St. Valery 
between the gendarmes!”’ His words were forceful even 
to the Americans, who had once seen a peasant ushered 
out of Bréport between two of these gorgeously uni- 
formed, and superbly mounted officers of the law. 

“Enfin, Jean—go to your mother! You throw no 
more stones!” Bellemaire pushed the frightened boy 
from him, who, with his companions quickly disappeared 
around the corner of the Grain Hall. 

Bellemaire would not listen to their thanks. “No! 
No!” he waved them off. “I only do my duty. But 
if the Americans ever need beer in schops or syphons 
of mineral water or fine drugs, Bellemaire is at their 
service.’ He rubbed his hands cheerfully and backed 
into his little shop. 

“Bellemaire is all right,” said Felix. 

“T should say he was,” exclaimed Ben. “The Maitre 
tells me that when the Prussians were here in the ’sev- 
enties, they had to put a revolver to his head before he 
would order his citizens to supply provender.” 

As they passed through the town the small boys doffed 
their caps and Jack scampered where he would unmo- 
lested, but there were low mutterings and shrugging of 
shoulders among the groups of peasants who stood be- 
fore the doors of their chaumiéres. 

“The Americans are not contented with ruling their 
own, they must needs rule the world. A bas les cochons 
Ameéricams!” 


163 


Chapter XVIII 


HE wide, hard, highway shone white in the sun. 

E Small hoof beats, a jangling bell, the rumble 

of Pére Boudin’s donkey cart as it toiled up the 
slope towards Silleron were the only sounds that broke 
the stillness of the hot July morning. 

In the cart sat Ben, carefully shielding a large, newly 
stretched canvas as the vehicle jolted along. He had been 
forced to accept the company of the loquacious postman 
as he expected to make a week’s visit at Silleron and 
somebody must needs bring back the donkey to Bréport. 
He was on his way to paint a portrait of the Swami. 

Boudin kept up a continuous chatter. It was his habit 
to collect news as he dispensed letters, so he was ever 
ready to gossip with man, woman or child. 

“One tells me that the Comte de Baigneur has paid 
Monsieur five thousand francs for his portrait!” He 
shifted the weed in his mouth and eyed his companion 
sideways. | 

“Ah?” replied Ben, looking up the road unconcern- 
edly where he could see the figure of a young peasant 
woman approaching with a prawn net over her shoulder. 

“One says that Monsieur is of a very rich family; 
indeed one has said that Monsieur will marry M’lle Dur- 


lan.” 
“Ah?” Ben moved uneasily in his seat and reaching 


out a foot, gave the donkey a vicious kick. As the beast 
bounded ahead, they came suddenly upon the young 


164 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


woman with the fishing net. She was young and pretty. 
Ben recognized the face instantly although he had never 
seen it in the flesh before. 

“A pretty girl, Jacques Potin’s daughter!’ Boudin 
jerked his thumb over his shoulder and winked know- 
ingly. “But she would go to Paris and by my faith 
what do they become when they carry faces as pretty 
as hers with them? They say she lived with an Amer- 
ican painter but who can know? It is most likely hear- 
say.” He once more glanced sideways at Ben whose 
face might have been carved in wood. 

“Ah?” As he again uttered the one short word he 
administered a sharp kick at the donkey. The animal 
sprang forward with a snort. Pere Boudin all but fell 
backwards over the tail board. The rest of the journey 
was passed in silence. 

Lili had cast one quick glance upwards as the cart 
passed, then her eyes fell and remained glued to the 
highway until the sound of the wheels had died away 
in the distance. 

When she looked up again it was with the fierce eyes 
of a hunted animal. Pere Boudin’s insulting look was 
but one of many such that greeted her wherever she went, 
but most often in her father’s smoky little café where 
she was made to serve drinks from time to time. 

Even that morning, malicious lips had whispered cal- 
umny into her ear. The poisonous gossip of her father’s 
tap-room had made violent jealousy gnaw at her heart. 
“They are alone—alone!” she groaned as she saw 
Ben driving away from Bréport and again wild, 


165 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


unreasoning jealousy made her breathe rapidly as she 
shifted the net pole to the other shoulder and trudged 
down the hill towards Bréport. Poor, untutored Lili; 
born of a class not far removed from the cattle of the 
fields, she could put but one interpretation upon love. 
To her it was but a whirlwind of desire; a maelstrom of 
unbridled passion. What wonder that she was jealous. 
What wonder that these foul suspicions poured into her 
ears, filled her poor head with a host of lurid imaginings. 

When, as a last resort Lili took up her abode among 
these toilers of the soil, she found that she too must 
work, or else submit to her father’s taunts and curses. 

There were two alternatives; the café its insults and 
blows with the continuous company of Potin and his fel- 
low sots, or the mackerel boats of Sotteville. 

As many other unhappy souls have done, Lili went 
down to the sea. At first the fisher folks derided her 
tender white hands and many little ways unconsciously 
acquired in Paris, but she was soon able to take a hand 
at an oar or haul in a seine with the best of the women 
who for the most part were coarse, unsexed creatures, 
whose hoarse voices could hardly be distinguished from 
those of the fishermen. 

She sailed with Pere Dalot an old fisherman who lived 
in a little hut not far from her father’s auberge. His 
storm-beaten boat had weathered so many tempests, that 
it was a common saying among the fisher-folk that 
“TEtotle de Mer’ would, with her master, last forever. 
She had sailed out of Sotteville since the earliest recol- 
lections of the oldest inhabitants. 


166 





“4s other unhappy souls have done, Lili went down to the sea.” 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


There were days when Dalot’s boat would be beached. 
These were the days that she most dreaded. Anything 
but the hated auberge. She would cast about for work 
to do that would keep her away from home. 

Potin was a gourmand; this Lili knew. She also knew 
his weakness for prawns. So it chances that l’Etoile de 
Mer is beached this morning and Lili on her way to the 
shore to fish for prawns. 

She kept to the highway until the Leper’s Road was 
reached. Here she stopped for a moment. The tempta- 
tion was strong to turn in and follow it down to the 
chapel; to lie below the high wall of Felix’s garden and 
hear his ringing laugh once more. But no! That would 
never do! She might have to wait for an hour and she 
must be back with the basket of prawns by déjeuner or 
there would be blows and curses from Potin. So she 
left the highway and skirting the town soon reached the 
beach. 

The tide was low. She seated herself upon a bunch of 
sea-weed and kicking off her sabots, slipped a piece of 
string through the holes in the heels and hung them about 
her neck. Then pulling off her chaussons and stockings 
she stuffed them into the sabots. She caught up her skirt 
in a way that allowed her to wade to her knees without 
hindrance. 

As she seized her prawn net and started down the 
rock-strewn, weedy beach, a cry at her back made her 
turn quickly. 

“ Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Do not go away! 
Can you not pose for us? We will pay you well!” Two 


167 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


of Rouvier’s followers, one a man in corduroys, the other 
a woman in a gaudy pink and red beach gown were ges- 
ticulating from the shadow of the towering chalk cliff. 
The woman’s gown was so gorgeous, so Parisian as to 
make Lili’s mouth set in hard lines. She realized that 
plumage of this sort was no longer hers. 

She regarded them for a moment only, then with a 
shrug of the shoulders she turned away frowning. “ Non! 
Je ne pose pas!” She muttered the words bitterly, while 
the fierce, hunted look came into her face once more. 

Pushing the net through the shallow water, she fol- 
lowed the shore for an hour, patiently picking her way 
through shale and over occasional stretches of sandy 
beach, only stopping to slip the crisp, shining prawns into 
the basket. She went on and on until her basket felt 
heavy and she found herself before the Smugglers’ Gorge. 

Throwing herself upon the beach she wiped her feet 
with her apron and putting on her stockings and sabots 
once more, parted the thick shrubbery which closed the 
mouth of the gully and climbed upwards through the 
brush. As she neared the top she quickened her steps. 
There was a look of uncurbed expectation in her face. 
She hurriedly crossed the stubbly plain, bounded down 
the bank to the Dieppe highway and was soon crossing 
the little green before the chapel of Our Lady of the 
Valley. 

The Leper’s Road or Felix’s lane? Which should it 
be? She stood in a quandary, her face working with 
various emotions. The bell of St. Martin’s was striking. 


168 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She counted the strokes—‘‘ Only ten o’clock?” She 
uttered a little sigh of relief and turned towards the 
walled cottage with an expression of pleasurable antici- 
pation. 

Throwing herself down close under the wall in the 
deep shadow of some shrubbery she listened and waited 
—waited and listened for how long? It seemed an age. 
At last she heard it—yes—the same, dear sweet laugh, 
and she clasped her hands against her breast, the great 
tearful, lustrous eyes half closed, an ecstatic smile upon 
her lips. 

Poor soul; she was contented with so little. Suddenly 
she heard another laugh—the laugh of a woman. She 
was on her feet in an instant with wide eyes and parted 
lips—“ Mon Dieu! What agony!” She must see for 
herself—she must settle this thing which had been whis- 
pered this very morning—which burned in her brain like 
a demon fire. 

Her eyes traveled over the great expanse of smooth 
wall, then across the lane to the two Lombardy poplars 
which Felix had often likened to the spires of St. Clotilde. 

The possibility was no sooner mirrored in her eyes 
than it was acted upon. With noiseless, catlike move- 
ments she slipped off her sabots then her chaussons and 
stole across the lane in her stocking feet, always alert 
and watchful. 

Using the tree as a screen, she crept upwards clinging 
not only with feet and hands, but with teeth as well. Oc- 
casionally a brown hand would part the silver-backed 


169 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


leaves and a pair of half frightened but determined eyes 
would peer downwards. No; not yet—she must go 
higher—still higher. 

With every nerve and muscle set at a terrible tension, 
more and more cautiously she climbed and climbed until 
at last the swaying of the tree told her that she was 
nearing the top. There were barely enough branches to 
screen her from the garden. Again she heard his voice . 
and a soft light came into her eyes; then she deftly and 
eagerly parted the leaves. 

At first the warm glow of the noontide sunlight upon 
box, flower beds and pebbly walk blinded her; then she 
descried just within the deep, leafy cavity of the vine- 
covered arbor, that which her hungry, jealous eyes 
sought. 

Felix was stretched at full length upon the wooden 
bench, his chin in his hand, his elbow embedded in a 
cushion. He was looking over Alina’s shoulder. 

She had thrown herself upon the ground Turk-fashion, 
her lap filled with a lot of rare prints that Ben had 
bought in an old shop on the Quai Voltaire. Her back 
rested against the bench and the noble head was so near 
Felix that his breath stirred the golden-brown strands 
which had escaped their confinement and were riotously 
tumbling over the seat. 

A touch, a look, a sigh meant so much to him and now 
he denied himself all for her sake. Yet as she picked 
out a new print and studied it with absorbed gaze, he 
cautiously, reverentially caught up a strand of the wav- 
ing hair and caressing it with look and touch pressed 


170 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


it to his lips while she, all unconscious, turned to point 
out something that she had discovered in the print. 

There was a cry—more a moan than a cry which 
neither of them heard. The throbbing, clinging figure at 
the tree top seemed about to fall. ) 

To the impure all things partake of impurity. The 
suspicions of a sensual mind are limitless. 

Lili’s face became livid; all the strength went out of 
her arms; her hold was loosening—No! she must not— 
must not fall. He must not know that she had seen them. 

She clung with a blind instinct, her pale face upturned 
to the sky, her eyes closed. At last, with the color in her 
cheeks came her strength, but her eyes burned with the 
baneful fire of jealous hatred. 

At last she clasped the great trunk, for she was near 
the ground and burying her face in the leaves wept bitter 
tears. Then she set her teeth and frowned. “No! I 
hate—hate—hate him!” She dropped to the grassy 
bank reeling from exhaustion. As she started to cross the 
lane, a hand fell upon her shoulder. A guilty, fearful 
pallor overspread her face. She turned to meet a pair 
of cunning, greenish gray eyes. 

“Hush! Tell me quick! What did you see? Quick 
I say!’’ Miss Dolchester shook her roughly. 

Lili jerked herself free and retreating backwards a few 
steps eyed the intruder suspiciously. With an angry 
scowl she silently turned towards the spot where she had 
left her net and basket. Miss Dolchester picked up her 
paint box and followed, baffled but persistent, her mouth 
closed determinedly. 


171 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Lili slipped on her chaussons and sabots in silence and 
swinging the strap of her prawn basket over her shoulder 
started down the lane closely followed by Miss Dol- 
chester. . ‘ 

As she turned into the Leper’s Road and quickened 
her steps, the same firm hand seized her arm and she was 
whirled about as upon a pivot. ; 

“Answer me! I demand it! We can talk here. They 
cannot hear us.’’ Miss Dolchester nodded her head to- 
wards the walled garden. 

With blazing, wrathful eyes Lili again shook her off. 
““Who are you? What matters it to you what I saw? 
No! I will tell you nothing!” She turned and was off 
again, her companion dogging her steps. 

They traversed the entire length of the Leper’s Road. 
““ Listen—here is money! You shall answer me or I will 
tell him where I found you to-day!” Miss Dolchester 
again stood in her path. 

“Curse your money—No!” Lili struck at it. The 
gold piece went spinning across the high road ringing 
as it fell in a pile of stones. “Tell him if you like; 
but he will say you lied!” She turned on her heel and 
was gone. 

Miss Dolchester stood for a moment watching the 
rapidly disappearing figure, her thin lips set in a hard 
line, her eyes shifting restlessly. Then she turned to 
the pile of stones and searched for the gold piece. 

As Lili passed the vine-covered arbor where Potin 
held his court during the hot season, she started and 
frowned; his hoarse, guttural voice greeted her in wheed- 


172 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ling accents. “Hola! Ma chérie! What have you 
brought for déjeuner? Come; show us!” 

She looked up questioningly as he uttered the last 
words to meet the covetous glance of Potin’s companion, 
a shock headed, square jawed youth who made a place 
for her upon the bench beside him. 

Ignoring his action, Lili stood holding out the basket 
of prawns with surly, downcast eyes. Potin looked into 
the basket with the air of a glutton while his companion 
stared at Lili. 

“Fine large ones! Regardez Auguste!’ Potin fished 
out a big shining prawn and held it up for his com- 
panion’s inspection. It wriggled in his fingers and fell 
to the ground. Lili stooped to pick it up. Auguste also 
reached for it. Her soft brown locks brushed his cheek. 
With a savage laugh he threw his arms tight about her 
waist and kissed her again and again. 

As he released her she stood for a moment panting. 
Potin laughed hoarsely and slapped his thigh, but sprang 
to his feet with an oath as the sound of three sharp blows 
—flesh striking flesh, rang through the place. She would 
have struck and struck until the paroxysm of fury had 
been spent, but Auguste hid his face in his arm and a 
numbing blow from behind sent her reeling across the 
yard. 

Potin laughed a Satanic laugh at what he had done, 
and shook his fist after her as she staggered into a door. 

“The miserable minx! She shall obey me! Curse 
her! She shall obey!” He struck the table a blow which 
made the glasses jump into the air and fall together with 


173 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


a crash. The two men sat face to face, Auguste still 
smarting from her sudden onslaught, Potin showing his 
broken teeth like some wild beast, his anger only half 
spent. 

“T tell you she shall, Auguste! Bah—only think! You 
a rentier, an honest man willing to make her your wife, 
and she with no dowry—Nom dun cochon! She is a 
gobemouche—a blockhead! ” 

“Tt is easy enough to say she shall.” Auguste rubbed 
his smarting cheeks disconsolately. “ She is impossible!” 

“Listen! Would you know why?” Potin leaned 
across the table, and tapped his companion on the 
shoulder with two fingers. “ Why? The American of 
course!” 

“The American? The one who pitched me into the 
horse-trough last fete day?” 

“The same! ” 

“Curse him!” 

“So say I! Curse him to MHell—eternal Hell! 
Listen!” Potin caught the collar of Auguste’s blouse 
and whispered into his ear. “ She loves him—her be- 
trayer. She told me so once when she thought she was ~ 
dying. She will have nothing of you. She will listen to 
nobody until % 

“ Until ” Auguste repeated the word, the fire of 
jealous hatred flaming his sullen face. “Ah yes; 
until——” 

“ He is dead!” The men sprang to their feet in con- 
fusion, overturning bottles and glasses as the words ut- 


174 











22 


we 





BP 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


tered in a hoarse whisper, came from somewhere at their 
backs. 

Then they turned again as a figure darkened the en- 
trance of the arbor and a low laugh greeted their ears. 

“Bonjour Monsieur Potin!” Miss Dolchester stood 
smiling with out-stretched hand. “ Will you and your 
friend drink with me? [I am thirsty. I have walked 
from Bréport and these traps are heavy.” She threw them 
down and seated herself, quite ignoring the suspicious 
glances of the two peasants. 

“Give me some brandy—a big glass and a syphon! 
See that the syphon is cold and Messieurs, what is yours 
to be?” She looked up at the low browed brutes with 
a seductive smile, holding out her cigarette case 
invitingly. 

Their poor thick heads were addled by these unwonted 
courtesies. They sheepishly helped themselves to cigar- 
ettes. Auguste fumbled over the fallen bottles trying to 
right them while Potin became the obsequious host as 
best he knew how and hurried away for the brandy and 
syphon. 

“Ho; Monsieur Potin!” cried Miss Dolchester as he 
appeared with the drinks. “ Pére Boudin tells me that 
you are a bon garcon. If that be true you can do me 
a great service and in the meantime gain three francs a 
day—Non, mon ami! Don’t look like that!’’ She laughed 
familiarly as she poured out the brandy and filled the 
glass brimming full from the sparkling syphon. “It is 
only to sit at yonder table as you sit every day and let 


175 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


me paint you. Sapristi! but you are a magnificent type 
Monsieur!” There was such admiration in her glance 
that Potin looked foolish and awkwardly rubbed his 
bristling chin with the back of his hand. He shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“Eh bien! As you will Mademoiselle; when do we 
commence?” 

“Now!” 

“Ah! but Mademoiselle forgets it is the hour of dé- 
jeuner.” 

“N’importe! Aprés déjeuner if you will. It will an- 
swer quite as well, the light is always the same in the 
arbor.” 


*« x * * a 


“Ts it true that you have lived in America? The head 
a little more to the right. There stay so! Ah; Monsieur 
Jacques, you pose well.” Miss Dolchester regarded 
Potin with her head tilted to one side as she measured 
the relative proportions of his massive shoulders and 
bullet-like head marking it off with her thumb on a 
brush handle held out at arm’s length. 

“America?” He frowned fiercely. “ Yes—malheu- 
reusement I have lived with the swine; the canaille; the 
dregs of the earth. I bought the good will of a café in 
South Fifth Avenue. Does Mademoiselle know New 
York? ‘No? Ah, then I can forewarn you. One goes 
there to be robbed. Name of a dog! They are a nation 
of cheats, thieves, cut-throats!” He struck the table a 
resounding blow. 


176 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She smiled insidiously. “ Ah, too bad—too bad, but 
Monsieur forgets that he is posing. The body to the 
right; the head to the left. There! that will do. So 
Monsieur no longer loves the Americans?” 

“Love them?” He burst into a roar of demoniacal 
laughter. “Can one love a snake? a rat? a hyena? an 
American pig? No! No! Mademoiselle. I hate them. 
Listen! I chose to punish my wife on the steamer! A 
tow-headed American knocks me down. I come back 
here and persuade the Comte de Baigneur to give me 
a farm on the credit plan. JI choose to beat my horse 
one day, when the American hussy, she who lives with 
Mere Fouchet, tries to stop me. Nom d’un cochon! Of 
course I horsewhipped her, then the Count turns me out 
of my farm because I beat ladies on the highway. 

“My daughter goes to Paris. The tow-headed Amer- 
ican betrays her. She comes back here and Auguste 
offers to marry her sans dot. Think of it! Marry a 
penniless girl who——” He raised his eyebrows and 
gave an inconsequential shrug “a girl who has made her 
little mistakes—la voila! The minx will not so much 
as look at Auguste and why?” His face flushed with 
vindictive hate “ Because of the tow-headed American 
of course. He always crosses my path. She adores 
him. She would lick the dust off his boots. Curse him! 
Curse him!” He beat the air with his huge fist. 

The cold, cruel face bending over the palette wore an 
exultant, satisfied smile. She industriously puddled some 
blue and red paint into a semblance of mud and forgot to 
touch the canvas for some moments. 


177. 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


She looked up finally with the same crafty, fulsome 
smile. ‘‘ You do well to hate the Americans Monsieur, 
but please turn your head to the right. No, not so 
far. There—that will do.” She worked in silence for 
a while then started up and backed away from the easel, 
studying her canvas as she walked. ‘“ Yes; I understand. 
You would marry your daughter well. Ah; what a pity 
that the American should stand in your way. Auguste 
would pay up your old debts and you would be happy 
again. Ah yes; it is a great pity.’ She looked up to 
see the wicked fire which she fed burn more and more 
fiercely. 

“A pity! <A pity! You should be rid of him.” She 
again turned her attention to the canvas, tilting her head 
from side to side with half closed eyes. “A strange 
accident, the passing of the coast guard last week?”’ She 
looked up again questioningly. 

“ Picked up dead on the beach. What of it?” snarled 
Potin, his wrath still at boiling point. 

“They say he walked off the cliff in the night; lost 
his path.” She was again working industriously. “ But 
who knows; he may have had an enemy. How easy it 
would be to steal up behind and push him off. People 
would say he walked off in the night—an accident. His 
assailant would never be caught.” | 

“Easy enough!”  Potin scowled impatiently, “ but 
what of it?” 

She once more seated herself and fixed her eyes upon 
her work, the old sinister smile merged into a look of 


178 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


such heinous, livid hate that Potin forgot to pose and 
leaned forward listening in open-mouthed wonderment. 

“The American often walks alone on the cliff at night 
—do you understand now?” She started to her feet. 
Their eyes met. 

“So then—you too hate the American?” She felt his 
foul breath upon her cheek as he eagerly whispered the 
words in her ear. The discolored broken teeth were dis- 
agreeably near. She involuntarily drew back, but their 
eyes met in a perfect understanding and the silent com- 
pact was sealed. 


179 


Chapter XIX 


OOKS there were in such redundance that the 
B gorged shelves could hold no more, while every 
inch of floor-space not needed for foot-room had ~ 

its quota of volumes. 

The library of Silleron had become an inspiration to 
Felix. At first he had loved it because of the high, 
vaulted ceiling, the great canopied chimney-piece with 
the arms of the Baigneur family sculptured upon its 
face, the antiques of all races, all times, that covered the 
walls and cabinets. Felix had the true artist’s love for 
anything old which bore the imprint of man’s originality. 

He had in the course of his many visits come to love 
the musty, half obliterated manuscripts of papyrus, 
parchment, crumbling time stained paper, which littered 
the great oaken table. 

In the beginning these manuscripts had bored him. 
He had been content to steal quietly about the room 
studying sculptured marble and wood, beaten gold or 
graven steel, while the Count and Hindu worked. 

But from time to time the Swami would translate 
some truth written by a sage thousands of years before 
and they would launch forth into a discussion in which 
Felix would join in his own impulsive way, discovering 
a truth here or a dogma there as though the two philoso- 
phers who regarded him with kindly eyes had not dis- 
covered these same truths years before. 

“Your horizon is widening.” the Count smilingly ex- 


180 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


claimed one day as they were leaving the library after a 
particularly interesting hour. ‘ Man's spiritual and 
artistic development depends absolutely upon where he 
fixes his mental horizon. The dogmas of the world 
choke, blind, paralyze man. They narrow down his hori- 
zon until he thinks and acts as a puppet, not as an un- 
trammeled soul. That is why I left the church of 
Rome! ” 

The Count’s voice had been raised to an unusually high 
pitch, his finely chiseled face was lighted by the enthu- 
siasm of the moment. He had but just locked the library 
door, his voice still echoing along the hall-way when the 
sound of another voice made Felix halt and turn a won- 
dering face to the Count. 

As though in direct contradiction to his host’s words, 
this vigorous barytone voice chanted the service of the 
Church of Rome. 

Felix had often noticed that the Chateau possessed a 
chapel but naturally supposed it to be abandoned as the 
Count had never referred to it by word or action. 

He saw the wonderment in Felix’s face. There was a 
tinge of sadness in his tones. ‘‘ I am the black sheep of a 
long line of devout Catholics. My only brother is a 
Cardinal at Rome. My dear mother would have made 
a priest of me. She was a rare mother—the one love of 
my life.” 

The Count pointed sadly in the direction from whence 
came the sound of the chanting voice. 

“Tt was her wish. She made me promise as I stood by 
her death bed that the sacraments of the Church should 


181 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


be administered in the Chapel of Silleron as they had 
been administered for five hundred years. So for her 
sake I have this young priest here once a week to keep 
alive the traditions of the Church, while I myself, am 
turning the search-light of a truth loving age upon these 
same traditions. The Church’s Messiah said a man can- 
not serve two masters, so you find in me an amazing 
anomaly.” 

“The whole of Christendom is one huge anomaly!” 
murmured the Swami ‘“‘ You are no more inconsistent 
than our painter here who allies himself with a school 
of so-called Realists who paint the deformities of a sensu- 
ous humanity and call it Truth. What then is the beauti- 
ful, the chaste, the ideal, the spiritual? Bah—were 
there ever such perversion? ” 

Felix listened with lowered eyes. At that moment, 
beneath the spell of those scathing words it- seemed 
indeed perversion. 

“True,” said the Count “that is why, when I re- 
modeled the chapel as a memorial to my mother I chose 
a symbol painter, an idealist who was vilified and perse- 
cuted by the French school until discouraged, unsup- 
ported, actually without food, he threw himself into the 
Seine. I believe I possess his greatest work.” 

The Count held up a warning hand as they neared 
the end of the corridor and carefully turned the knob 
of a door. There were but three steps downwards and 
Felix found himself in a gallery extending across one 
of the chapel walls. 

He was conscious of a wealth of Gothic carving, the 


182 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


tapers dimly flickering upon the altar, the officiating 
priest. There were apparently no windows, but his eyes 
turned involuntarily to the source of a limpid, opaline 
light which flooded the place with a pure phosphorescent- 
like glow. 

He knew instantly that this light was as unlike the 
glow of stained glass as moonlight is unlike the ruddy 
fire. His eyes rested upon a spot above the altar and as 
he looked there came into them a great wonderment ap- 
proaching adoration. They drank and drank at the 
source of light as though they would never be content. 

He saw a host of yearning, suffering beings. The 
agonized, the sick, the despairing. They were reaching, 
pushing, straining every nerve to creep within the pure, 
calm, peaceful effulgence of this wondrous light. 

Upon the faces of those who had already reached the 
goal there rested a deep abiding peace, the like of which 
he had never seen. 

“The Light of the World! The divine radiance of 
God. You chose your subject well. You chose your 
artist well. He was a master!” The Swami turned to 
the Count. 

“Aye! That he was—poor Duchatel. It was his own 
idea, lighting the canvas in that way.” 

“Duchatel?” Felix awoke from his day dream with 
a start. He turned to the Count with scoffing, incredu- 
lous eyes—“ Why, Duchatel was a crank! A fool! 
An ig 

“Ecstasist! Yes; it was he. A pity that there are not 
more fools. Could Duchatel have seen your face only a 


183 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


moment ago he would have wept for very joy. Look! 
did you ever see light painted before?” 

Felix’s eyes followed the Count’s gesture. “No, 
never!”’ he murmured in humbled, reverential tones. 
Then the consciousness of a great wrong done surged 
over him. He saw again the little black push cart on the 
Paris quay. He remembered the fisherman’s heartless 
smile—his reply—‘ Nobody in particular! Only another 
wmbécile painter!” 

He thought of how Duchatel had been hounded, ridi- 
culed, wounded, driven to the Seine by Rouvier, Boschet 
and the ‘ Realists.. He thought of his own scornful 
words as he stood that day upon the quay—* Poor fool of 
a Duchatel! ” 

He turned, the Swami was speaking. 

“Does he not paint reality, he who paints Light— 
God—the Principle of Truth? Why then do you paint 
sordid, animal man in all his monstrous-hideousness and 
call yourselves Realists? Do you—you—a Realist is 

“No! No! Don’t call me that!’’ Felix raised a pro- 
testing hand “ No—not here! Not now!” 

The Swami’s sentence was never finished, but as they 
left the chapel and wandered out into the sunlight there 
was a look of contentment in the calm depths of his 
kindly eyes, for Felix had awakened to a realization of 
what a fallacy his art had been. 





184 





The Old Weaver's Cottage. 





Chapter XX. 


triple-arched gateway, and seated themselves 

upon a stone seat heavily cushioned with dry 
moss which commanded a view of the long, broad 
avenue with its double rows of oaks and chestnuts. 

In the vista were the scattered chimneys and purplish 
gray roofs of the village of Silleron. 

Felix traced the lazy upward course of a column of 
blue smoke which rose from a small chawmiére some- 
what removed from the rest. 

While his eyes followed the smoke, his inner con- 
sciousness was alive to all that had transpired in the 
chapel. He would hear more of Duchatel. He would 
know how and when the Count had found him. 

The Count following Felix’s gaze seemed to inter- 
pret his thoughts, for he raised a hand and pointed at 
the column of smoke. 

“Had it not been for her who builds yonder fire, Du- 
chatel would never have gone to Paris—never have died 
in the Seine. What? You never knew that he came from 
Normandy? Ah yes; Duchatel was a true Norman. 
He loved the chaumiéres, the sound of the loom and the 
wooden shoe. He loved the very smell of the colza 
fires. He was a peasant at heart if his father had been 
the last of a long line of notatres. 

“A good boy was Duchatel—too good for the village 


185 


‘he left the great court by the monumental, 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


boys who never understood him. They teased him to 
the point of distraction. 

“The widow Duchatel would bring him to the chapel 
to mass. He loved the music, the mystery, the symbol- 
ism. He often came alone. This pleased my dear, devout 
mother who must needs make a priest of him. The one 
desire of the widow Duchatel’s life was that he should 
take Holy orders and so one day he left Silleron. 

“When he came back in priestly robes he was grown 
to manhood and alas; to manly beauty. He had those 
dark, dreamy. eyes which seem not to see, yet see and 
feel and suffer. 

“Stories of his wonderful talents followed him to Sil- 
leron. They had called him the Fra Angelico of the 
monastery. He had painted wonderful pictures upon 
the walls of the refectory. 

“My mother secured the living of our little parish for 
him. When not at mass or visiting the sick, he painted 
always, as one inspired. Upon the chapel walls I found 
Holy Families, Crucifixions, Assumptions. 

“T paid but little heed, only knowing that he worked 
without models. Yet one day as I studied these pictures 
more carefully, I noticed a strange fact. While the 
Christs, the Josephs, the Apostles varied in type, the 
Mary at the manger, the Magdalen at Christ’s feet, the 
Virgin of the Assumption were variations of the same 
face and that an earthly one of to-day. 

“The face was familiar but I could not place it. A 
fear haunted me all through that day. It still troubled 


186 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


me at sundown as I approached the wood of Blosse- 
ville on my return from a visit at Bréport. 

“Turning abruptly into the disused path which leads 
to Silleron, I came upon two figures walking hand in 
hand as lovers walk. Their faces were bent earthwards. 
I knew the cassock and broad hat. My foot struck a 
loose stone. The priest dropped the woman’s hand as 
though it had been molten. He never looked up, but 
there was shame in his every movement. The woman’s 
shameless gaze met mine unflinchingly. She knew full 
well her power. Mon Dieu! What a power is woman’s! 

“The following morning I went to the chapel. I must 
see again the faces that she had inspired. The pictures 
were gone. A ruthless hand had torn them from their 
mouldings. 

“There was no mass that day. The poor widow Du- 
chatel found his hat and cassock lying across his undis- 
turbed bed when she called him in season for early mass. 

“Poor Duchatel! How he trusted and loved that 
woman. Her one ambition was to be a Parisienne, so to 
Paris they fled. He made her his wife, but to what pur- 
pose? That she might drag him lower and lower and 
then—one day he came home to find her gone with an- 
other.”’ 

“Gone?” Felix unconsciously repeated the one tragic 
word with a husky voice. ‘ Poor—poor Duchatel!” 
There was measureless compassion in his tones. 

Duchatel’s mistakes had also been his. They were 
bound by a bond which made them akin. 


187 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The Ecstasist had then been no colorless, unsexed 
fanatic. He felt humiliated when he remembered how 
Ben had shielded him, coaxed him back to life and 
—Duchatel? Who gave him aught but jeers and insults? 
Yet he had struggled up through the clinging quagmire 
of despair and had given the world a vision of Heaven 
—The Light of the World. 

It was grand—heroic! Felix turned towards the 
chapel. He could see its gray buttresses and gargoyles 
through the line of trees. His face again lighted with 
inspiration. There was then hope for him. 

“Duchatel never came back.” continued the Count. 
“The Church had excommunicated him. His art alone 
remained. It became his life, his hope. He shut himself 
up in an attic and painted. 

“He became a purist. Cleansed by the scathing fire 
into which he as a priest had knowingly entered, he 
became the priest of a new creed—a creed that saw in 
art the culmination of all chastity, all purity. 

“T chanced to be in Paris. I found him in his lonely 
attic at the one supreme moment of his life. He was 
working on yonder canvas!” The Count pointed to- 
wards the chapel. 

“He saw neither brush nor canvas—only that Light, 
that wonderful Light. When I spoke he turned in aston- 
ishment for he knew not that I had entered. His face 
beamed—‘ See! See!’ he cried, ‘Take it! Place it 
above the altar that I desecrated! It is my atonement!’ ” 

The Count started up from the bench and silently 


188 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


paced the soft, velvety turf; then he halted and once 
more pointed at the column of blue smoke. “ The woman 
lives in yonder hut because she is the mother of Du- 
chatel’s child—the babe which she stole when she left 
him. It is my pleasure to support them. Enfin—shall 
we take our walk?” He laid a hand upon the Swami’s 
shoulder. 

As Felix left his companions and started homewards, 
he had an overwhelming desire to retrieve, to achieve, to 
create, and beneath all, like the skeleton at the feast, the 
dull prodding of conscience—the knowledge of the 
wrong done Duchatel. 

He was willing to atone for it, but how? It weighed 
heavily upon him as he paced the whole length of the 
great avenue with loitering steps. He always idled here. 
He loved the place. He, like Duchatel, loved the very 
sounds of a simple peasant life which echoed between the 
long lines of patriarchal trees. 

The clatter of an old weaver’s hand loom ceased as he 
passed the door and a wrinkled, leathery face sur- 
mounted by a white-tasseled night cap peered forth and 
watched him out of sight. 

There was the creak of a well windlass, the sharp slap- 
ping blows of a group of washerwomen who were beat- 
ing their clothes along the banks of a tiny rivulet. 

As he passed on, the rooks overhead cawed sharply, 
as if they knew that he was not to the manner born. 
Then he heard the muffled cry of an infant close at 
hand, mingled with the sounds of a sharp altercation 


189 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


carried on by two adults, the one a peasant woman, the 
other He stopped abruptly and listened. It was 
the only discordant note in the whole peaceful symphony. 

An angry flush darkened his pale face. He knew the 
cold, relentless voice, the nasal English accent. 

“Will you ruin the work of weeks? The child must 
sleep or I cannot paint her!” 

“No! No! No more, Madame! You will kill her! 
See; she is like one dead! Stop! You shall not!” 

He heard the sounds of a struggle. A chair was over- 
turned. Something thrown over the hedge landed at his 
feet. It was an iron spoon. He reached downwards to 
pick it up. As he did so he scented a musty, pungent 
odor. “Laudanum!” he scowled as he muttered the 
word. 

The cold, cruel voice went on, “ We will see! What if 
I tell the Count of your latest liaison? Will he publicly 
support a woman of the town even though she be the 
widow of Duchatel? ” 

Felix heard a cold, heartless laugh. “ Then you will? 
I thought as much! Chacun a son gout! Yours is for 
the Count’s gold! Hand me that spoon and stop whim- 
pering!”’ 

Felix glanced upwards. Yes, it was the house which 
the Count had pointed out. He parted the straggling 
hedge and leaped through. 

“The end justifies the means.” Miss Dolchester per- 
sonified her favorite maxim as she leaned over the half- 
stupefied child, her cold, colorless face set in hard, de- 
termined lines. She,—egoist—realist—personified the 


190 








‘« Washer-women beating their clothes along the 
banks of a tiny rivulet.” 


\ 





The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


brutal spirit which drove Duchatel to the Seine. Even 
as she balanced the deadly phial and started to count the 
drops, her eyes sought the unfinished canvas with selfish 
abstraction. 

Her subject was Fantine watching the sleeping Co- 
sette. She had used her means well thus far, but the end 
was not yet attained. The fate of the picture depended 
upon whether the child slept for two more hours and 
that must be accomplished at any cost even if—she 
missed her count. The drops of laudanum blurred to- 
gether. She smiled as she lowered the phial and glanced 
at the mother. A woman of the town. What would it 
matter? She would never miss the child. Why bother to 
count them all over? Handing the phial to the mother 
she raised the child’s head. It moaned. 

Felix had resolved to meet her calmly, coldly, but the 
sound of that moan drove him to madness. 

Before Miss Dolchester could turn, the spoon was 
struck from her hand. Her arm was in a grip which 
brought forth a sharp cry of pain. He delighted in the 
sound. Why should a fiend incarnate not suffer in the 
very moment of her perfidy? 

He led her out into the open air and dropped the arm 
with a gesture which left an angry sneer upon her thin 
lips. 

She tried to speak, but there was that in his face which 
made her retreat backwards and glance to right and left 
as an animal does when at bay. 

“God only knows who sent you to this cottage! Why 
did you choose Duchatel’s child? Was not Duchatel 


IQI 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


enough of a sacrifice? Must his child be drugged to 
death to suit the whim of a Realist? To give the world 
a thing like that?’”’ He pointed at the canvas which 
stood just within the door. “ As though that were worth 
a life! No; this is your last séance—the last the law 
allows, for I shall see that the law punishes you if you 
come again! Duchatel’s child poses no more! Do you 
understand? ” ; 

She faced him in livid rage. “Ho! Ho! So you have 
turned Ecstasist?’”’ Her shrill laugh echoed down the 
avenue. 

“Felix Braxton the Realist! Felix Braxton the Bo- 
hemian—associate of Rouvier and the libertines turned 
Kestasist! What a joke! He defends Duchatel and all 
his progeny!” She snapped her paint-stained fingers in 
his face, “ A penny for your morals and sermons! Curse 
you for ruining my Salon picture with your damnable 
hypocrisy!” 

He did not heed her insults. He was wonderfully 
calm. He stood with folded arms while she gathered 
up her scattered brushes and colors. 

“Here Madame Duchatel, is what I owe you for 
posing! You will not need to pose your child any more! ”’ 
She cast a meaning glance at Felix. “She has a father 
now and you a i 

She dared not utter the word. The frightened look 
was in her eyes again as she retreated to the gate. 

Felix turned away with a shudder and entered the 
hut. He was trying to shake off the memory of a hor- 
rible night in Rouvier’s garden. 


192 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


His face softened at sight of the sleeping child. With 
gentle movements he reached down and gathered her up 
in his arms. She moaned. 

“Hush—hush—my little one!’’ He nestled her 
against his cheek. “ You are safe now. No eae shall 
ever come to you while I live!” 

There was a look of peace in his face. His atonement 
had been paid in part. 


193 


Chapter XXI 


V i VHE bell of St. Martin’s struck twelve melodious 
strokes. Felix stopped to count them, then 
threw down his brushes with an exclamation 

of surprise. The morning already gone? He had 

worked with a joy in his eyes, a surety of touch never 
known before. 

He could not forget yesterday. If his courage flagged 
for an instant, the Light of the World would flash into 
his consciousness and he would call himself a coward as 
he thought of Duchatel’s victory. 

As he reluctantly turned his canvas to the wall, his 
eye encountered an unmailed letter lying upon the table. 
He must try to get it off by the noon post. He hurried 
down stairs and along the Leper’s Road. 

He did not stop at Mére Fouchet’s. Alina and Ben 
had gone to Silleron. He kept on to the Market Square. 
Something out of the common was taking place. Groups 
of peasants stood about the square. On the terrace a 
number of them had mounted chairs and were peering in 
at the windows of the Chariot d’Or. As he stood for a 
moment near the café he heard two hoarse voices in 
noisy conversation. 

“Not a deputy? Why then does he give away din- 
ners? He has need of votes, parbleu!”’ 

“No! No! IJmbécile! He is a grand poéte—a Re- 
publican! He does it for charity!” 

“© ho; for charity! Tiens—tiens! Well he may— 


194 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


be he a Republican! Have we not starved ever since the 
Empire? What is he called? ” 

“ Hugo—Victor Hugo—stupide! Have never heard 
of the grand poéte of France? ” 

The old fisherman lifted his cap and scratched his 
grizzly head in perplexity. ‘“ Hugo—Hugo? Aye! Aye! 
to be sure! The captain of the potato boat saw him once 
in Guernsey—it is a long time since! He said the 
Emperor had sent him out of France. So he be a Re- 
publican? A pity that he is back again! 

“Oui! Oui! There be too many Republicans in Bré- 
port!” 

“Victor Hugo in Bréport?” Felix accosted Pére 
Boudin through the open window. 

“ Certainement! He comes to visit Paul Meurice— 
the play writer—you know the chdélet with the ter- 
race by the sea!” The letter carrier reached for his 
pouch with an officious air. “ Attendez, Monsieur! 
Here it is—the notice. I cried it all over town yester- 
day, ah; then Monsieur was in Silleron and did not 
hear? ” 

He unfolded a soiled sheet and read in sing-song, 
nasal tones— | 


Citizens of Bréport, Seine Inférieure. 
Monsieur Paul Meurice begs to announce that his dis- 
tinguished guest Monsieur Victor Hugo will give a 
banquet to the poor children of Bréport, Silleron and 
Sotteville, to-morrow noon in the grand salle a manger 
of the Chariot d’Or, Bréport. 


195 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Would you see the grand poéte? He is yonder!” 
Boudin nodded towards the dining-room. 

Felix forgot to mail his letter. He mounted the ter- 
race steps and climbing upon a chair craned his neck to 
see within. 

Cabbage soup seven times a week, a rabbit stew now 
and then of a Sunday, is it to be wondered that a hun- 
dred piping voices shouted “Vive Victor Hugo!” at 
sight of patés, vol-au-vents and ices? 

Felix could hear a voice. It was Bellemaire’s. The 
Mayor wore his tri-colored sash. He was thanking their 
host for his kindness. He was proud to address one who 
had been exiled for the Republic’s sake. 

When he had finished, an aged man rose to his feet. A 
rugged, seamed face stood forth from the crowd of happy 
young faces as a mighty, weather-worn oak stands forth 
from a forest of saplings. 

The voice was weak. Felix could not hear. He saw 
the rough-hewn lines of the Titan face melt in the sun- 
light of a benign smile. It was all there, the pity, the 
Christ-like love of Jean Valjean. 

Felix seemed to see the old well and little Cosette tug- 
ging at the water bucket as the great man reached down- 
wards and taking a tiny peasant girl in his arms kissed 
and fondled her. 

Felix crowded forward, a tender, eager look in his eyes. 

“Assez! Assez! Do you want the whole Chariot 
d’Or?”’ A peasant jammed an elbow into his side, but 
he never heeded it, he was looking at the child. As she 
turned a laughing face towards the light he gave a con- 


166 





Victor Hugo and the children of ‘‘ Bréport.” 








wy 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


tented sigh. Yes; it was Duchatel’s child—the little 
Cosette of yesterday. 

He turned away. How the Titan face would have 
hardened in righteous fury had he witnessed that hateful 
travesty of Truth at Silleron. 

“Realism! Truth ” he muttered as he thought of 
Miss Dolchester’s picture, “ A painted lie at the price of 
a life!” 





* * * * * 


Colored lights flashed upwards from the beach which 
lay below the chalet of Paul Meurice. The citizens of 
Bréport were honoring France’s greatest immortal. 

A cool ocean breeze fanned Felix’s cheek as he lay in 
the tall grass at the cliff’s edge watching the weird scene 
below. Close at hand was the paling which bounded the 
garden of the chalet. He heard a door open. There were 
footfalls and voices upon the terrace. A figure supported 
by two young girls tottered forth from the shadow into 
the lurid glare of red fire. 

As he laid a hand upon the parapet and gazed seawards 
his gentle care-takers glided back into the gloom and he 
stood alone. 

“Long live Victor Hugo! Long live the Republic!” 
the crowd below cheered and cheered. 

The silent figure never moved. The massive, heroic 
face looked always seawards. In this ghoulish light it 
was sublimely picturesque. 

Did the sight of the ocean, the sound of the waves re- 
call the lonely island of his exile? Was he thinking of 


197 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


that other day when they had cried “ A bas Victor Hugo! 
Down with the Republic! Long live the Emperor!” 

As Felix crept nearer and nearer he saw in the Titan 
face the majesty, the grandeur of another, greater world 
where cycles are unnumbered. How trifling then the 
cheers of those who wished him a year or two more of the 
short span called life. What wonder then that he heeded 
them not until a slender girlish form came out again from 
the gloom and touching his hand pointed downwards. 
Then, after a little, Felix heard the faltering foot-falls 
once more. The chalet door closed, the colored lights 
died out, and he lay looking upwards at the cold, clear 
moon. 

What a poor thing seemed his genius beside that 
colossal one. 

Ah! but he was still young! Yes, but-——. The old 
fearful look came into his eyes for a moment—only for a 
moment, though. He sprang to his feet—‘ Pshaw; I 
am a baby! The Swami is right—there is no death! 
Life is gigantic—eternal—sublime!” Fear? No; he 
feared nothing. Again the Swami was right—fear digs 
innumerable graves. 

As he paced the deserted cliff road, he came upon the 
wayside crucifix. He thought of the night of his agony; 
of his confession, the comfort it had brought him, and 
with the thought came a wonderful happiness. 

Her gentle caress at the foot of the cross had awakened 
in him a new love which brought with it a great peace. 
It was a love to be cherished, hoarded, not declared for 
selfish ends. A love which gave everything and asked 


198 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


nothing save the joy of living in the same world. He 
deserved no more. 

He had all his life cherished an ideal of the woman he 
would love, but the passionate, unthinking first love came 
like a whirlwind, sweeping ideals aside. 

In the intoxication of that moment he had thought 
Lili was all that he could desire. He even forgot social 
laws had been broken. Then came that awful awaken- 
ing, ideals and faith in womankind tumbling to earth. 

Now, through the blackness of his distrust there shone 
a pair of gray eyes so pure, so true, so honest as to 
shame his ideals to nothingness. 

He was strangely calm. He wondered that this could 
be the passionate, sense-swayed Felix of other days. 

No, he would demand nothing in return. No, before 
God she should never know it. This love would be his 
religion, his life. 

He started homewards. The village was still once 
more. He must have remained a long time at the cru- 
cifix. As he passed Mére Fouchet’s cottage he saw a 
light in Alina’s window and murmured a fervent “ God 
bless her! ” 

He turned into the Leper’s Road. The moonlight sil- 
houetted the rows of poplars, casting great serpentine 
shadows across the way. Presently he noticed some- 
body coming down the path towards him. It was a 
slight, phantom-like figure flitting from shadow to light, 
from light to shadow, but ever towards him. 

Who could be abroad at this hour? When but a few 
paces away the figure halted a moment. He could see 


199 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


that it was a peasant girl. He-uttered a cry as with a 
low moan she threw herself at his feet. 

“Lili! You here? No! No!” He sprang backwards 
and tried to free himself as she clutched his knees, his 
waist, his neck, uttering fierce protestations of love. 

“Felix! O Felix—take me back Felix! I betrayed 
you! I was a beast! But it is you—you—Felix, that I 
have always loved! O take me! Take me!” 

The spell of the new love still upon him, he shook her 
off with a look of horror but escaped the fierce clutch of 
her arms only for a moment. He tried to deafen his 
ears to protestation that had once made him delirious 
with joy. 

A great fear seized him. She was kissing his hands, 
his neck. The beautiful, softly-fringed eyes were so 
close to his that he closed his own and wrenched himself 
free with a cry of pain, but again and again she was 
upon him. 

“Listen, Felix! Take me back Felix! I will give 
you my life! Listen, I beg of you!” A ray of hope 
lighted her face. “I will pose again! The Psyche will 
be finished! It will go to the Salon! You will have hon- 
ors, riches, all because of Lili, your poor little Lili who 
will be your slave until death!” 

At mention of the Psyche other promises uttered at the 
foot of the cross flashed into his consciousness and with 
this remembrance came surging back that joyful, un- 
selfish love. 

A marvelous calm possessed him. With wondering 
eyes she let him unlock the arms so tightly closed about 


200 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


his neck and suffered him to draw her to a seat upon a log 
by the roadside. 

Then he began to pace the road as she had so often 
seen him do in those old happy days when he undertook 
to discipline her. 

“ Lili, I once took you sinfully—yes, it was sin, I know 
it now! I thought of you as my wife, but you betrayed 
me—disgraced me. True love is unselfish. True love 
never degrades.” 

His voice was gentle, persuasive. 

“Would you drag me down again? Would you have 
me shunned by my dearest friends? Listen Lili! If you 
love me truly you would have me happy.” 

With a cry she once more clasped his knees, “ I would! 
I would! The bon Dieu knows I would!” 

He raised her to her feet and calmly looked into her 
face. “If you love me live a pure life for my sake! 
That will make me happy.” 

Lili stood with downcast eyes, her fingers working 
nervously; then with a piteous cry she threw herself 
upon the ground. 

He turned away and hurried up the road. Once he 
glanced back. He could see the youthful figure in rough 
peasant garb lying prone beside the great log with hands 
extended clutching at the rough bark as she sobbed and 
moaned aloud. 


20! 


Chapter XXII 


picture met his gaze. 

Felix sat upon a bench just outside the little 
arbor. Celeste knelt beside him, her clasped hands across 
his knees, her face raised imploringly to his. 

“Has it come to this? I am astonished!” cried Ben 
with mock gravity. 

Felix sprang to his feet with a quick laugh—* O, it 
is only ae eternal esate She is determined that 
I shall go.” 

“And so you shall! We are all going! The Count, 
the Swami, the Maitre, Alina, little Celeste and Marie. 
Everybody is going. The Count has only just discovered 
that Alina is a fine horsé-woman. He says his hunt- 
ers are stiff for want of exercise. He offers us two 
for the pilgrimage. Mére Fouchet will go as chaperon 
and you will look after her and the luggage in one of 
the Count’s farm wagons. He thought you were not 
strong enough to ride. The Count and Swami will go 
by train; they haven’t time to drive. You know they sail 
for America the day after the féte. They are going to 
the Psychical convention in Washington. Heigh ho! I 
shouldn’t mind seeing America myself.” 

Felix lowered his eyes as Ben seated himself beside 
him. He could not meet his happy, ingenuous look 
for a moment. “Drive behind in a farm cart with 
Mere Fouchet?” There had been a time when he would 


202 


‘ S Ben entered the walled garden one day, a strange 





‘““ Where the water-cresses grow.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


have flushed with anger at the suggestion. Like most 
Virginians he was a fine horseman. 

Ben did not know that the one absorbing desire of his 
life was to be beside Alina. Why should he know? 
Dear, unselfish Ben; so he smiled, and turning quietly to 
Celeste laid a caressing hand upon her shoulder saying, 
“ My little one, the fates have settled it—I go!” 

When Ben came home with the Count’s kind offer 
Alina’s joy surpassed all bounds. He had found her 
snugly fixed behind a great stack of straw, sketching a 
calf whose head she had gently but firmly lashed to an 
iron bar driven into the ground. 

As Ben broke the news, calf, canvas, paints, were all 
forgotten. The uncleaned palette, colors, brushes, were 
bundled together helter-skelter and she made for home 
by the shortest lane, leaving Ben to liberate the calf. She 
burst in upon Mere Fouchet with glowing cheeks and 
sparkling eyes. 

“© Little mother! Little mother! Can you believe 
it? I amtoride! Yes, really ride. No old farm horse 
but a beautiful thoroughbred, the Comte de Baigneur’s 
mare. I saw her only yesterday. I never dared ask 
him, and now Ben has done it and we are to ride this 
very afternoon.” 

“And Monsieur Felix?” Mére Fouchet looked up 
with much meaning in her glance. 

“Felix? Yes, of course Felix will ride. Poor Felix.” 
She looked up with troubled eyes. “ That was the difh- 
culty at first. I refused point blank when Ben said 
Felix was not to ride. You see the Count thought him 


203 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


too ill, but I am sure he isn’t. I sent Ben straight back 
to Silleron to ask for another horse.” 

She caught the old woman by her shoulders and 
planted a kiss upon each cheek. “ Quick! Put an iron 
in the coals while I unpack my habit.” They sponged 
and ironed it at the kitchen table. “ O little mother, if 
we can’t go to Heaven on horses J don’t want to go ior 
it is the most like Heaven of anything in this world.” 

So it transpired that for a week before their departure 
on the pilgrimage a farmer lad appeared daily at Mere 
Fouchet’s gate with the horses. The mare came to know 
Alina so well that she would whinny and poke her nose 
over the hedge for sugar lumps that Alina would tuck 
away between the begging lips. 

A fearless, beautiful, well habited woman on a well- 
bred, active horse is a sight for the gods. So thought 
Ben and’ Felix. 

Color, form, action meant so much to them, and here 
they found it in its very quintessence. The eager gray- 
blue eyes, the dark delicately penciled brows, the red 
young lips parted just enough to show the pearly teeth 
within as she breathed deep and strong with the health- 
ful exercise. The brown coil of hair with its glint of 
gold. The disorderly little strands that would always 
cut across her cheek and swish into her eyes in spite of 
all she could do; the very gesture with which she would 
dash these impertinent locks aside had in it a wanton 
grace. | 

Felix rode as he danced, with a vim that often out- 
distanced his companions as they cantered over the grassy 


204 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


by-roads. As they dismounted, a sickly pallor over- 
spread his face and Ben saw his hand fly to the same old 
place over his heart. 

Alina hurried to his side in reren alarm but Felix 
drew himself up with his old laugh. ‘‘ Nonsense, | am 
all right! Only a little tired—that is all.” 

It was, however, his last ride. The next day the horses 
went back to Silleron unused. Nothing could persuade 
Alina to ride. The most eloquent pleadings of Felix, 
Ben’s most common sense arguments were of no avail. 

She spent the day with Felix, doing her utmost to make 
him forget his weakness. She pulled out sketch after 
sketch and study after study, picking out strong points 
in each with an enthusiasm that soon made Felix forget 
everything except his art and the beautiful earnest face 
before him. Her heart gladdened as he once more became 
his own, joyous, enthusiastic self, attacking a study of 
her head with all of his old-time vigor. 

She posed for two hours never moving except to twist 
her suffering neck two or three times. She was thor- 
oughly cramped and tired but he never knew it. She gave 
a grateful smile as he started up, overturning his stool 
and exclaimed “ There—that will do Alina. I never did 
better in my life.” 

The next day when she and Ben had their ride, Felix 
never knew it for he had gone to the cottage loft and had 
once more unpacked the Psyche. 

Alina shielded Felix as though he had been a sick and 
wilful child. “ You see it wouldn’t have done for us to 
have ridden yesterday,” she explained to Ben with an 


205 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


odd little motherly air which she always assumed when 
speaking of Felix “he would have been so unhappy.” 

They were riding up a hillside, their hunters stretch- 
ing out their long necks, nipping at an occasional wayside 
clover or an overhanging apple branch. | 

‘“ He suffers so over things, poor boy. O Ben; if we 
could only rid him of that idea—it is so terrible. I al- 
ways know when he is thinking of it, I can see it in his 
face.” 

“So can I,” said Ben as he grimly struck an apple 
from a branch over his head and watched it go bowling 
along the road. “I was talking with the Swami about 
Felix only the other day. He calls him a genius. He 
says sublime possibilities are his. The greatness that 
comes to the few, but that he is dragged down by his 
senses—by fear, the nagging, subconscious fear that eats 
away a man’s vitals while he may be ever so brave—aye— 
a hero! He says that Felix lives too much upon emo- 
tions, sensations, illusions. You know how he is either 
"way up or ‘way down. I know no braver soul than 
Felix, yet the Swami says that unless he conquers this 
fear he will surely die.” 

The horses were lazily climbing a warm hillside. 
Alina sat with slackened rein and downcast eyes, her 
forefinger thrust through the loop of her riding stick, 
which she twisted and untwisted abstractedly. 

This was no new problem to her. She had needed no 
Hindu philosopher to tell her all this. Had she not lain 
with wide thoughtful eyes, night after night in her little 


206 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


white room, conjuring up plans whereby Felix might for- 
get the doctor’s death sentence. 

Great hot tears welled to her eyes. She twisted and 
tugged at the riding stick in mad endeavor to keep them 
back. Suddenly it slipped from her grasp rapping the 
mare smartly upon the flank as it fell to the ground. Sen- 
sitive as a hare, unused to punishment of any sort, the 
horse started forward as though shot from a catapult. 

There was but one uncertain moment as Alina regained 
her seat, then began a battle royal between mare and 
rider which did not end until three miles of road had 
been covered and she found herself within the cool shade 
of the pine woods of Blosseville. 

She wheeled the mare about and gazed long and in- 
tently down the road. She could neither see nor hear 
Ben. 

A fagot gatherer at work near by, gave a quick glance 
over her shoulder and noiselessly disappeared into the 
depths of the wood. 

Alina patted the mare’s neck. “We must cool off 
while we wait for Ben. Ah—just the thing!” She 
espied a young pine and sliding down to the ground led 
the mare over the needle strewn turf, unbuckling the 
snaffle rein as she went. 

“ There! I will give you just a foot of halter. That is 
all you can have. You don’t deserve more after running 
away.” | 

She laughed softly as she tied the strap firmly about 
the tree and throwing an arm about the warm foam- 


207 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


flecked neck, laid her cheek against the mare’s for a mo- 
ment. 

“No girlie; you didn’t scare me one bit! No; not one 
little bit!’ She reached down, pulled a bunch of tender 
grass and thrust it between the puckered lips. “ There; 
take that!” Then she threw herself down at the foot of a 
huge pine and fell to fanning herself with her sailor hat. 

Only a few yards away the fagot gatherer lay clutch- 
ing the sod, her face contorted by hate and jealousy. 
“She is waiting for him—him—/him! Ah—Mon Dieu 
que je souttre! No! No! he is not for her! He shall 
not be!” The great brown eyes burned with an insane 
fire. A sun-browned hand reached forth to clutch a short 
handled wood chopper’s axe lying half buried in the dry 
leaves. 

“Liar! Strumpet! Hypocrite! They call me these, 
and what are you?” Like some reptile intent upon its 
victim she squirmed and crept noiselessly ever nearer and 
nearer, from shrub to shrub, from tree to tree, her eyes 
fixed intently on her goal, the labor stained fingers 
twitching upon the axe handle. 

The brown head with its glint of gold rested against 
the foot of the great pine. The calm, fearless eyes looked 
expectantly down the road. 

“Him! Him! Ah Dieu!—Dieu! she waits for 
him!” Lili crouched and listened, her body heaving 
with pent up passion. No; notasound. There was still 
time. She reached the last tree and was on her feet, the 
right arm thrown back, the knuckles of the hand a livid 
white so fiercely did she clutch the axe handle. Then 


208 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


she started forward only to hurry back for she heard the 
sound of hoof-beats rounding the curve just below. She 
heard a ringing laugh, Alina was in the road waving her 
sailor hat reassuringly to Ben who sprang from his jaded 
hunter with an anxious face. 

A fearful, wondering face peered forth from the tangle 
of roots and grass. A low moan of relief escaped the 
dry, parted lips. “ Thank God it is not Felix!” Then 
all weak and unstrung she crept back, tree by tree, bush 
by bush, until she reached a bed of velvety green moss 
where the ferns grew rank. 

She heard them talking in the strange tongue that she 
hated now except when spoken by one—one only. She 
knew when they mounted and rode away. As the hoof- 
beats grew fainter and fainter and were finally lost in the 
distance she buried her fevered face in the wet, green 
moss and sobbed hysterically. 


209 


Chapter XXIII 


cc WN the name of The Blessed Virgin help a poor 
| soldier of France!” A_ strange, misshapen 
thing started up almost from under their horses’ 

feet. There was a snort and clatter of hoofs. 

“ Careful, Alina! There’s a ditch down there!” Ben 
reached for the bit of Alina’s horse. The beast was 
plunging madly through some brush bordering the road- 
side. 

“Fool! What right have you to frighten the lady’s 
horse if you are trimmed up to suit a Prussian?” Ben 
dismounted to tighten Alina’s saddle girth. The one- 
legged, one-armed veteran of Sedan muttered a curse and 
scuffled away upon his one short crutch while the horses 
pointed their ears and arched their necks at the uncouth 
object. 

“They get thicker and thicker. They are a beastly nu1- 
sance.”’ Ben was rolling a cigarette with his bridle slung 
over his arm. 

“T am willing to wager that this fellow is the two 
hundred and forty-seventh maimed beggar that we have 
met this side of Rouen. My small change is all gone.” 

“Poor things!” said Alina. ‘“ What else can they 
do?” 

“That may be,” replied Ben, “ I suppose I am a brute, 
but I loathe a professional beggar as I doa snake. They 
make me shiver!” 

“Why my dear boy! You forget! We are on a pil- 


210 


nee: mepaopeee 





“On the brow of a hill overlooking Rouen they broke their journey.” 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


grimage!” Alina’s eyes were laughing. ‘There never 
was a pilgrimage without hordes of beggars. They are 
a part of the thing you know.” 

“To be sure!” muttered Ben seriously, as he began 
searching his pockets for stray coins. “ Ah; here is a 
sou. Hola! Dit donc! He whistled to the beggar. As 
he came tumbling towards them kicking up a cloud of 
dust, they heard the sound of jingling bells and rattling 
cart wheels. A farm lantern shot long rays of warm light 
through the dusty twilight. Suddenly the bells jangled 
roughly, the farm horse was pulled up on his haunches. 
“Whoa! Whoa! What in the—devil is that?” Felix’s 
pale face peered over the lantern while Mére Fouchet, 
with bonnet awry clung anxiously to the cart seat. 

“All right!” cried Ben, “only another beggar—a 
soldier of France this time. Not a Bayard though, he 
all but landed Alina in the ditch. The mare is good for 
another forty miles.” | 

“We shall never get there at this rate,” said Felix 
climbing down to hook up a fallen trace. “I bowled 
over a blind beggar in the last village. It took fifteen 
minutes and all the cash I had left to get away. If it 
hadn’t been for Mére Fouchet I never should: have 
escaped. She gave them Jesse when they tried to lock 
me up. She said I was an English clergyman doing the 
pilgrimage. You should have seen them melt away. 
Lucky I had on my black hat and coat wasn’t it?” He 
looked up with a comical smile and they all burst into a 
round of laughter. 

“ Little mother we could never have come without you.” 


211 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Alina coaxed the restless mare up to the cart’s side and 
patted the weather stained hand that clutched the rail. 

“No; that we couldn't,” cried Felix as he climbed up 
to his seat.. “ She is a trump!” 

“Let me see where we are now,” said Ben unfolding a 
pocket map, and scanning it by the light of the farm lan- 
tern. “Yes; I thought so! That last village was La 
Roquette. We are almost there. The mare knows it too. 
Just look at her; isn’t she a beauty?” 

“She simply won’t wait another moment,” laughed 
Alina who guided her mount with a firm hand as she 
curveted back and forth across the road. 

“All right! Let her go Alina!” cried Ben as he vaulted 
into the saddle. ‘“ But keep a short rein through these 
woods and look out for beggars and pilgrims.” 

With a chirrup Felix urged the farm horse into a trot 
and once more the little caravan was in motion. 

So it had come about that the Count’s original plan 
was carried out. Felix drove the blue-painted, two- 
wheeled farm cart with Mére Fouchet in a freshly starched 
cap perched up beside him, while Alina and Ben galloped, 
trotted or walked their horses as the speed of the farm 
nag dictated. 

Mére Fouchet had a cousin living at Canteleu on the 
brow of the hill overlooking Rouen, where they broke 
their journey. Here the old peasant woman and Alina 
found comfortable lodging, the men putting up at a small 
inn close by, where the horses were cared for. They had 
to walk but a few steps to see the quaint spires, gables and 
chimneys of the ancient city spread out below, the Seine 


212 


’ 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


with its wooded islands describing a great curve almost 
to their feet. 

They spent two days exploring “ The Imperial City of 
Normandy.” The things that most interested them were 
the tower, where Jeanne d’Arc was imprisoned and the 
place of her execution. 

One night after a day spent in the old streets and 
churches of Rouen, Ben and Felix sat smoking in the little 
paved door-yard of the inn. They listened to the cathe- 
dral bell as it struck the hour far below. The habitués 
of the café had long since sought their homes with un- 
certain steps. 

“Do you believe in reincarnation?” Felix turned sud- 
denly upon Ben. 

“T should like to.” 

““So should I,” replied Felix, “ for to-day as Alina sat 
upon her horse in the Place Jeanne d’Arc and you were 
reciting those lines, she might well have been the rein- 
carnation of the Maid. Her face has that same guile- 
less, fearless enthusiasm; the same indifference to men 
and things; the same big spirit that made Jeanne d’Arc 
ride astride a horse in men’s clothes.” 

Felix started to his feet and began pacing back and 
forth as he talked. ‘‘ Yes; Alina would have done all 
these things and more, were it to gain a great, good end.” 

There was something in his voice that told his love in 
spite of everything. 

Ben flushed consciously as he looked up at the pale, 
inspired face hanging over him. As torch kindles torch 
so Felix’s love, flashing forth at an unguarded moment, 


213 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


awakened another’s to full consciousness, so rudely, that 
Ben’s eyes fell as he rose to his feet. The deep organ- 
like voice had never sounded so tender, so true; there 
was something pathetic in its rich vibrations as he stood 
before Felix and laid a hand upon either shoulder with 
his eyes looking full into those of his friend. 

“There never was such a girl. No; not in all Chris- 
tendom.” He put his strong arm about Felix as he had 
done so often before when his friend was suffering, but 
now—how strange, he was the sufferer, from an agony 
of remorse that his love and Felix’s should be arrayed 
against each other because of her, the soul, the light, the 
inseparable of the Inseparables—the beautiful spirit that 
made their sweet trinity. His voice was husky as he bade 
Felix a quick “ good night,” and entered the inn. 


* * * * * 


All day long they had followed the river. As they left 
Rouen their way was shrouded in the early morning river 
mists. High above them on their left they could faintly 
descry the church of Bon Secours looming spectre like 
through the fog. 

Had it been noontide they would have stopped for lunch 
at some one of the many little bowered restaurants built 
so quaintly along the river bank. The tangle of river 
craft, rich colored cordage and sails enveloped in this 
mysterious haze caused more than one halt with ex- 
clamations of delight. Norman farmers and house-wives 
on their way to market looked wonderingly at them, as 
they pushed on through the roughly paved suburbs. When 


214 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


at last they reached the open fields the morning sun had 
dissolved the vapor, bathing everything in its glorious, 
translucent light. 

Ben and Alina were supposed to ride ahead in order to 
escape the dust of the farm cart but the mare more often 
cantered along the sod bordering the high road, while 
Alina would appeal to Felix’s judgment upon every fea- 
ture and incident of the journey, as though it mattered 
above all else what he thought. 

His eyes would glow with the new light which she 
had so often noticed of late and his voice would have 
a joyous ring which gladdened her innocent heart. They 
were still her boys. She loved them with the old im- 
partial love grown stronger through constant comrade- 
ship. 

And Ben? He was glad that Felix was happy. He 
would have him happy at any cost. His own secret was 
locked firmly in the recesses of his great stout’ breast. 
Felix must not know it. Alina herself must not know it 
lest by glance or sigh she disclose it to Felix and his 
fragile sensitive heart suffer a fresh agony. 

And so he would harangue Mére Fouchet in the patois 
of Bréport which he had learned after a fashion, lest she 
might be lonely with hearing their English all day, or 
he would join Alina in a brisk canter up a slope which the 
farm nag would take at a sober walk. Then it was that 
he had to guard himself against showing the subtle joy 
that came to him through her every look and gesture as 
they waited for the others within the shade of a copse 
or dismounting would sip grenadine at a little iron table 


215 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


before the door of some rustic auberge. Then as the 
farm cart would come toiling up, something in Felix’s 
face would add a tinge of reproach to Ben’s happiness. 

Nothing would do but that Alina should have another 
grenadine with Felix while Ben would adroitly climb up 
beside Mére Fouchet and drive off. In a few moments 
he would hear the sharp hoof-beats behind and Felix’s 
joyous ringing laugh mingled with another’s that he loved 
to hear above all else in the world, and Felix none the 
worse for the short canter. 

As they followed the river bank they looked in vain for 
the colossal perspectives into which the great Turner had 
woven these quiet meadows, these slowly gliding streams 
and graceful bridges. 

They came upon an auberge in the suburbs of Pont de 
l’Arche which looked to be a good lunching place. The 
landlord stood bowing and smiling in the doorway, so 
they gave up their beasts to a farm lad and entered the 
little low-ceilinged dining room with the inevitable sanded 
floor. 

They lunched off of a roast chicken done to a turn in an 
old fashioned tin oven. The spit was turned by a 
tously headed, goggle eyed urchin in a faded blouse and 
spiked shoes who watched their every movement from his 
station in the courtyard just outside the salle a manger. 

“Ah; so you are Americans,” said the landlord as he 
bustled about helping a damson cheeked peasant girl to 
lay the cloth. “‘I have seen your compatriots at the 
Jardin d’Acclimatation in Paris.” He waved his hand 
towards a highly colored poster which adorned the wall. 


216 





Pont de l’ Arche. 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


They all turned to look. Alina laughed spasmodically. 
So did Ben and Felix. They saw a group of American 
Indians in all their hideous war paint and squatty ugli- 
ness. | 

“So they are not your compatriots?”” The landlord 
looked a trifle disappointed. 

“Yes—See!’’ Ben bared his bronzed forearm, “‘ I was 
once a ‘red-skin’ myself.” The landlord studied the arm 
incredulously for a moment; then his eyes encountered 
Alina’s and a broad smile overspread his face. The 
goggle eyed boy had stolen in. He was peering up at 
Ben from under his master’s arm. Suddenly there was 
acrash. “Fool! Stupid! Would you burn the Ameri- 
cans’ dinner to cinders?” The landlord overturned a 
chair as he rushed into the court and fell to turning the 
spit madly. Then he beckoned the boy back to his work 
with scowls and imprecations. 

And so they had journeyed through the August day 
always following the ever winding river. Now that 
night was coming on, the road lay below the great chalk 
cliffs which wind and rain had worn into gigantic phan- 
tasies towering above them weird and fantastic in the 
gathering gloom. Away to their right they could see 
the slowly moving lights of the river craft. 

There was every evidence that they were nearing the 
shrine of their pilgrimage. The air was filled with the 
sound of mysterious voices coming from anywhere, every- 
where, even from beneath their very feet as in the case 
of the ‘ Soldier of France.’ 

They passed sad little companies bearing their sick 


217 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


upon litters. They overtook an old peasant trundling a 
push cart from which there came a sound that made Alina 
cry out in pity. 

Hideous forms hobbled through the dust upon crutches, 
canes—even upon their hands and knees. Soon they 
encountered camps by the roadside of those who could 
ill afford lodgings in the town. They saw a company of 
acrobats performing upon a green-sward beneath the glare 
of flaring torches 

How he had arrived there so quickly Alina could not 
fathom. He must have known some short by-path, but 
there was the Soldier of France leering upwards at a 
bloused peasant who scowled down at him. 

As he heard their horses’ hoofs, the Soldier of France 
cursed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The 
peasant turned full upon them with a brutish gesture. 

“Take care Alina!” cried Felix, “ You are crowding 
too near; she will bolt if you aren’t careful.” 

She rode between Felix and the traveling show. She 
had guided the mare close to the cart; so close that he 
laid a warning hand upon her arm. Her lips were set 
in a firm line; her face looked strangely white in the 
dusky light. “See!” she exclaimed, “ How wild the 
torchlights make the cliffs.” She pointed upwards and 
away from the lights to the towering mass above them, 
and Felix never saw Potin and his party. 

Ben saw them all. Pére Boudin pulling his donkey 
within the circle of light; the peasant girl with the great 
lustrous eyes burning fiercely; Potin himself scowling 
at them from beneath the vizor of a new cap, his new 


218 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


starched blouse sticking out in stiff ugly lines as he thrust 
his hands down into his trousers pockets. 

“Yes ;” replied Felix, “they are uncanny in this light. 
They are like Druid temples, monstrous idols, or for- 
tresses. Look! See that big one looming out of the mist 
to the right. It must be—it is a fortress!” 

“Mont Carmel!” murmured Ben. The happy ring 
had gone out of his voice. “Only think! Richard the 
Lion Hearted built it seven hundred years ago.” 

Felix drove on in silence, under the spell of the cen- 
turies, the great crumbling donjon looming higher and 
higher as they drew near. 

Something worse than the centuries had cast a spell 
upon Ben. “ Why had this cursed Potin come to the 
Pool? And worst of all why had he brought his unfor- 
tunate daughter? Must Alina be mortified and Felix 
tortured by having his past constantly hawked before 
them? No! it must be stopped at any cost. He and 
Felix must leave Bréport; the sooner the better. 

They passed more gypsy vans, merry-go-rounds and 
catch-pennies of all sorts ranged along the roadside. It 
required not a little skill on Alina’s part to guide the mare 
through the confusion of peasants, beggars, toddling 
babies and helpless pilgrims. 

As they reached a turning where a slender church spire 
came upwards from the gloom, two figures started forth 
from the roadside, the one leading the other. There 
was a joyful cry “O Monsieur Felix! Then you have © 
come! Little Marie and I have waited here since dark.” 

Celeste’s pure oval face looked up to them lighted with 


219 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


a joyful, satisfied smile. There was an unusual elation 
in her manner, a great gladness in her voice which touched 
them all strangely. 

“Come! Get in! I will take you to the town!” 
Felix tossed the reins to Mére Fouchet and held out his 
arms. 

“No! No! we are here in Little Merville with the 
Abbé Jacquet! The Great Merville is half a kilometer 
further on.” She pointed up the valley—* The healing 
pool is there.” She breathed out the last sentence as 
though it had been a prayer and crossed herself. Then 
she heaved a rapturous sigh—‘ Ah Monsieur Felix; I am 
so glad you have come—and you Monsieur Cushing—and 
little Marie will be the gladdest one of all to-morrow— 
to-morrow—Ah ; the bon Dieu is good.” 

“Yes; to-morrow—to-morrow! ” repeated little Marie, 
a beautiful smile wreathing her parted lips, the sightless 
eyes rolled upwards. 

“Enfin—da demain!” Celeste drew Marie aside as 
Felix gathered up his reins. 

“ Bonsoir Mademoiselle; messieurs!” There was a 
deep tenderness in Felix’s voice as he called out his “ Bon- 
soir.? 

“That child’s faith staggers me, I never saw anything 
like it before. Do you suppose anything will happen 
to-morrow?” He turned to Mére Fouchet. 

“ Ah Monsieur! Who knows? The bon Dieu is good. 
He healed her, why not the little one?” | 

Then you think that Celeste was really healed?” 

“ Monsieur!” Mére Fouchet faced him reproachfully. 


220 





“They passed more gipsy vans, merry-go-rounds and 
catch-penntes—.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Think it? No Monsieur, I know it. Every child of 
God who was at the Pool that year knows it, for they 
saw. Seeing is believing. Ah; the bon Dieu is good.” 

Could seeing, make him, a victim of inexorable fate be- 
lieve? Felix flicked the jaded farm horse with his whip 
and wondered. 


221 


Chapter XXIV 


/ VY HE triumph of the spiritual over the material; of 
mind over the fleeting thing that man calls 
matter; the cure of the blind girl of Sotteville 

through the medium of a gushing spring and the priestly 

offices of an historic church, was upon the lips of all. 

It was discussed upon the street corners, in the cafés, 
in the camps by the roadside. 

There was many a doubting shrug, many an incredu- 
lous laugh, but always some serious, awe-struck face 
would push itself to the front with—“ It is so for I saw!” 
and the scoffer’s laugh would choke in his throat. 

The “Great Stag” was the only large inn of Grand 
Merville. Its quaintly carved timbers had been hewn 
in the days of Francis I. 

With the traditional love that Frenchmen have for such 
things, the landlord had gathered in from old chateaux, 
manors and chawmiéeres; tapestries, carvings, faience, and 
metal work of the period in which the inn had been built, 
so that pilgrims of Canterbury or Palestine never slept 
or dined in quainter halls. 

A remarkable company sat about the table. The Ta- 
bard itself never sheltered a more mixed assemblage. All 
had come to Grand Merville with one intent—to witness 
a miracle if such a thing were possible; so while they 
wallowed in the sensuous pleasures of entremets and roast 
duck, they analyzed, each in his own way, the thing that 
had transpired under their eyes that day. 


222 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


There was Biza the great novelist with his cynical smile, 
who had come all the way from Paris to study and satir- 
ize the superstitions of the Church of Rome. Villequier 
the Parisian nerve specialist with a profile like the great 
Corsican’s who had lately been bold enough to essay cures 
by hypnotism. Cardinal Ravenna of Rome with the 
drawn, intent face of the ascetic who would give his life 
if needs be to substantiate the fact that the cure could 
never have been accomplished except through the relics 
and offices of the Church of Rome. He dined with his 
secretary at a small table somewhat removed from the 
glare of the hanging lamps. 

Side by side before the great carved chimney-piece 
sat the Swami Savitarka and the Comte de Baigneur. 
They had pushed away their plates and were talking in 
low tones, the Count making rapid notes from time to 
time in a small pocket diary. 

Opposite the Swami sat Canon Milenforce of London 
who had brought down the ire of the Episcopacy upon his 
head by saying that the Christian Scientists knew more 
of true Christianity than any sect living. He was travel- 
ing through northern France in search of the Gothic and 
had stumbled upon the pilgrimage quite by accident. 

Next him sat Felix and next Felix, Alina, then Ben 
and further along on the same side the Maitre and Miss 
Dotchester. She had persisted in accompanying him, 
why he could not fathom. Her irreverent presence had 
been a constant source of annoyance during the day for 
he was a devout Catholic and revered his church. 

Alina and Ben were talking over the day’s happenings 


223 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


in low tones. Felix sat strangely silent gazing into his 
plate. He was thinking it all over. The little shrine set 
into the end wall of an old stone building; the little 
statue of St. Mathilde who had given the spring its won- 
derful healing power; the smoking, flickering tapers; the 
semi-circular pool below with stone steps descending into 
its cool depths. 

Then that eager, expectant line of sufferers—God—it 
made his heart ache even now to recall it. Their moans; 
their muttered prayers as they craned their necks to see 
the little shrine. The tears had stood in his eyes as, when 
the sprinkling or bathing had ceased, they would wait 
expectantly, then totter off with bent heads to take up 
life’s torture again muttering “ Not yet—not yet! My 
faith sufficeth not.” 

Then when the sad line was all but spent and doubt 
and disappointment was pictured upon the faces of the 
watchers, two slight girlish forms the one leading the 
other, glided into the little enclosure. Their faces were 
raised heavenwards. The eyes of one mirrored and an- 
swered the drifting clouds. The other’s, set in a face of 
celestial purity, gazed with a painful fixedness broken only 
by the restless quivering of darkly fringed lids. 

The murmuring of the crowd was hushed. The groans 
of the waiting ceased. Only the voice of the priest could 
be heard. Then a glad, joyous cry startled all. Like 
magic it was taken up and carried on by the crowd. “A 
miracle! A miracle! The blind girl of Sotteville is no 
longer blind! She sees! She sees!” 

During all the months of his intercourse with little 


224 








‘“«_The little shrine set into the end wall of an 
old stone butlding.” 





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The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Celeste, her gentle pleadings, her constant talk of things 
spiritual had been as the babbling of a brook, a tuneful 
accompaniment that helped him to infuse a minor strain 
of religious pathos into his “ Virgin of Wisdom.” 

Now he realized that she had uttered truths. Like 
those in the cafés, at the street corners, in the humblest 
camps by the roadside, he had seen and knew. 

He looked up from his plate and heard a voice speak- 
ing in cold, calculating tones. “ A most wonderful case; 
an evident stimulation of the optic nerve through some 
subtle hypnotic power exercised by the priest.” Ville- 
quier turned to Biza who looked up over his gold bowed 
spectacles with a doubtful smile. ‘So you are convinced 
that the child was blind in the beginning? Our opposite 
neighbor says no; she comes from Bréport where the 
child often visits.’ Biza waved his hand with a quick, 
nervous gesture towards Miss Dolchester, who met his 
glance with a cold derisive smile. 

“Blind!” she laughed quietly. “I have seen her run 
as hard and chase her mates as well as the best of them. 
She was no more blind than I. Messieurs; the bBo 
are hoodwinking you, they e 

“Tt is a lie! I have seen the child daily for weeks. I 
have painted her, walked with her, talked with her, I 
know of what I am speaking.” Felix started forward 
with indignant eyes; he had given Miss Dolchester the 
lie as instinctively as he would have parried a poignard 
thrust or struck at a vampire. The very sound of her 
hateful voice had goaded him on to it. As his fierce, 
quick words rose above the hum of voices, there was a 


225 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


lull in the conversation. All eyes were fixed upon Felix 
who greeted Biza’s shrug with one which outdid the 
great Frenchman’s. Felix had not lived in the Quarter 
for nothing. | 

As for Miss Dolchester, her face paled with unsubdued 
treacherous hate. There was a slight commotion at the 
other end of the table. The Comte de Baigneur was on 
his feet, fumbling in his breast pocket. “ Pardon; Mon- 
sieur Biza!” he uttered, as with a courteous bow he drew 
forth a paper and unfolded it. “As president of the So- 
ciety for the Investigation of Phenomena, I should like 
to say that the young man is quite right. The girl was 
blind. I here hold the signed statement of two reputable 
doctors of Bréport to the effect that Little Marie was 
blind—totally blind. This is a precaution which is quite 
necessary in the investigation of phenomena. As for the 
exact cause of this wonderful cure, that is for us all to 
discover.’ He tossed the document to Felix with a smile, 
who in turn handed it to the novelist. a 

“Ah to be sure; ” Biza gave the paper a cursory glance 
while he tugged at his wiry beard. “ But there are cases 
known where blindness comes at given periods and Ee 
He started at sound of the rough grating of a chair upon 
the sanded tiles. 

“Monsieur! Pardon if I interrupt.” The Swami was 
on his feet, his noble swarthy head and ruddy robe strongly 
relieved by the black recess of the massive chimney- 
piece towering above him. . 

“There has been a cure, that we know. Why quibble 
over doubts and useless precedents. Have we not seen 


226 





I'he HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


little Marie delving into the depths of a rose with wonder 
and delight? Have we not seen her gazing from the 
heights of Mont Carmel yonder, marking the course of 
a boat upon the winding river? Did she not point out 
the flight of a bird in the blue of infinity? Why then, 
friends, can we not lay aside all doubts and acknowledge 
truth when it stares us in the face? 

“Here we are people of all climes, all races, all faiths; 
and why here? Because in spite of sects and creeds we 
are children of one God. Because we long to prove beyond 
all doubt the conviction ever born in man, that he lives, 
grows, is healed of his infirmities by the Spirit of God 
within him; not by drugs, inoculations, or hypnotism. 

“We are immortal souls. These bodies of ours are our 
servants. He who becomes the servant of his body be- 
comes sick, halt, blind; he is hopelessly lost. 

“The Nazarene has truly said that unless we throw over 
our doubts and fears and become as little children we 
cannot be saved—from what? Our bodies! The rule 
of the flesh which is Hell itself. 

“Ah; my friends, it is when a gentle child of God like 
little Marie knows herself to be a living soul, not body, 
and reaching ever upwards comes into at-one-ment with 
God, that such cures take place. 

“T am not pleading for the Church of Rome. I am not 
pleading for any church, sect or creed, but for Him who 
is the Life of the Hindus, the Hope of the Zoroastrians, 
the Salvation of the Buddhists, the Jehovah of the Jews, 
the God of the Christians. 

“Why need we drag in our drugs, our clinics, our 


227 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


materia medica, when the thing stands proven before us, 
as it has been proven thousands of times before. Pardon 
me for interrupting, Monsieur Biza.”’ He swept his hand 
gracefully in the direction of the novelist and let it fall 
upon the Count’s shoulder. 

Biza waved a polite “not at all,’ as he reached for a 
match, lighted a cigarette and began talking with Ville- 
quier in quick caustic sentences. 

The Cardinal’s face was a study of conflicting emo- 
tions. It had lighted with inspiration as the Swami’s 
powerful utterances, verifying the miracle, swept on in 
all their richness until—ah well; one could hardly expect 
a priest of the Holy City to placidly accept the Zoroas- 
trian’s God without a murmur. So the corners of his 
mouth fell, and the look of the ascetic again came into 
his eyes as he gave a sleek clerical shrug. No; the cure 
had been Rome’s and Rome’s alone. 

Felix followed Ben and Alina out into the moonlit 
courtyard. The Swami’s words still rang in his ears. 
He did not even remark the look of vindictive hate in 
Miss Dolchester’s face as he unconsciously brushed past 
her in leaving the table. 


228 


Chapter XXV 


CC O you are Monsieur le Maitre? I should have 
S known it instantly had Monsieur spoken. I 
know your voice so well. Monsieur looks as I 
thought he would, for does Monsieur remember how he 
once took me in his arms and let me touch his face and 
silken hair? But I was a little girl then.” Marie’s curl- 
ing lashes fell. For the first time in her life the pink 
blush of consciousness colored her cheeks. 

She turned to Alina, her clear blue eyes beaming with 

undisguised admiration. “I had thought you beautiful 
Mademoiselle! People had told me you were, but—Ah! 
Mademoiselle—how can I tell you how beautiful you 
seem to me? Everything is so beautiful!” She buried 
her face in Alina’s lap and sobbed for joy. 
_ It was the morning following the miracle. The Maitre, 
Alina, Ben, and Felix had strolled down the shady, leafy 
walk which led from Grand Merville to the foot of Mont 
Carmel. 

Riverwards the great white cliff, capped with its pile 
of medizval masonry towered perpendicularly to a dizzy 
height, but from this side the rise was more gradual, al- 
though steep enough to make the Maitre wish himself 
fifteen years younger. 

Here was a huge moat which in the times of the Lion- 
Hearted, had been crossed by means of a massive draw- 
bridge. 

Half way up Mont Carmel in a secluded corner of the 

229 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


old battlements they had found Celeste and Marie gather- 
ing wild flowers. As they came upon them Marie held a 
bunch in one hand while with the other she pointed out 
flower after flower. 

“And that is yellow, and that blue, and that purple? 
Ah Celeste; I have so much to learn! But they are 
beautiful—O so beautiful! O I am so happy! Why are 
not all who can see happy? ” 

“Ah yes; why?” echoed Felix as he looked down into 
the face glowing with love and light. ‘ Because we can- 
not get away from ourselves!” 

He had slept but little the night before, but his wake- 
fulness was of a kind that refreshed him more than the 
sleep of weeks. 

Over and over again he had seen the wonderful revela- 
tion at the little shrine and had heard the Swami’s in- 
spired words. The old fear that had followed him 
through life was for the time forgotten. 

Alina had thrown herself down upon a mound of dry 
lichens over against the wall. Through a great hole in 
the masonry she could see down over the slender spire of 
Petit Merville to the river, winding its way through vel- 
vety meadows until it became a slender blue ribbon in a 
tapestry-tinted landscape. 

Ben was stretched at full length upon the ground, gaz- 
ing up at the sky with thoughtful eyes. 

Alina turned her attention to a tiny sail boat beating up 
against wind and current, then something moving in and 
out among the ruins attracted her attention. At first she 
couldn’t believe it to be a man, but as he squirmed and 


230 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


struggled into the open she recognized the Soldier of 
France. 

He stopped, and turning on his one short crutch beck- 
oned to some one below. In a few seconds the bullet-like 
head and hulking shoulders of a peasant appeared. 

Alina’s lips closed firmly as she recognized Potin. He 
and the beggar soon became lost in the ruins, and she 
turned her attention to Marie and Celeste, who were sing- 
ing some little Norman rhymes with an odd minor refrain. 

Suddenly Felix sprang up exclaiming—‘‘ I must take 
that view from the top! No; no; don’t stir! It is cool 
and comfortable here. I will be back shortly.” He seized 
his camera and started up the slope. 

Alina could see him from her vantage ground as he 
slowly picked his way upwards through the heaps of 
stones and rank growing weeds, stopping now and then 
to photograph choice bits as they caught his fancy. At 
last he reached the top and seated himself upon a rock. 
She knew he was giddy from his long climb and would 
have to steady himself before he neared the edge. Finally 
he stood silhouetted against the sky, with only one short 
step between him and eternity. 

The girls were still singing the little songs of the 
peasantry, the piping of their bird-like voices the only 
sound that broke the quiet of August noontide. 

The Maitre sat upon the ground near Celeste, carving 
a bit of root into fantastic shapes with his pocket knife. 
Ben’s hat was drawn over his eyes. Alina cast a longing 
glance after Felix. Had it not been so hot she would 
have gone up with him. She would go part way to meet 


231 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


him, so quietly creeping through the opening, she started 
up the hill. 

It was hot in spite of the wind which whistled through 
the battlements. Picking her way upwards through the 
débris and weeds she reached a small clump of gnaried 
oaks. Her eyes traversed the whole horizon, ending with 
the black spot which Felix’s body made against the sky. 
Then she started and gazed long and curiously at a 
second black spot—a man lower down on the battlements. 

He disappeared, but soon came into sight again, creep- 
ing along behind the great masses of masonry as a field 
mouse creeps from cover to cover.. As he came out into 
an open space he turned, and pulling off his peasant’s cap, 
wiped his forehead with his sleeve. 

Alina uttered an exclamation—it was Potin. <A wild, 
breathless fear seized her. There was no mistaking 
Potin’s diabolical intent. He had sworn to kill Felix— 
he would find him alone! 

She turned and shouted time and time again to those 
below, but the wind was against her, there was no re- 
sponse. 

There was but one alternative and she seized it in- 
stantly. Casting aside her broad leghorn she gathered 
up her skirts and ran like a deer, over rolling stones, up 
sliding sand banks, catching fiercely at rocks, dwarf pines, 
anything by which she could drag herself upwards. 

Her breath was soon spent, but on she struggled with 
a pain in her side that was but a shadow of the one 
clutching at her throat—the fear lest she might not get 
there in time to save him. 


232 





‘“__Richard the Lion Hearted butlt it seven hundred years ago.” 


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Ihe HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She fell in a bed of briars and rose with bleeding hands. 
She was almost there. She tried to warn him 
“Felix! Felix!” but her cry was barely a hoarse 
whisper. The south wind racing through the jagged 
openings drove dust down her dry throat and he never 
heard. Again she stumbled and fell. 

Felix sat upon the very edge. The people on the white 
road far below looked like black beetles. The noisy 
merry-go-rounds and gypsy vans resembled a toy vil- 
lage. It was deliciously restful up there. All sounds were 
far away excepting the rushing of the hot wind through 
the battlements. A long string of canal boats wound 
slowly round a curve in the placid, sluggish river. A 
flock of pigeons circled about below him. 

Felix was happy. The Virginia doctor’s death sen- 
tence had been swept from his consciousness by the 
mighty truths revealed to him during the past twenty- 
four hours. 

He sat for a long time gazing downwards. Suddenly 
the chasm below became for some unaccountable reason, 
an awful thing from which he shrank. He caught at the 
tufts of grass upon either side and looked over his 
shoulder. 

Right upon the ledge beside him was Potin, who mut- 
tered a savage curse as he balanced his heavy weight for 
the lunge which would send his victim over the edge. 
He wavered in his purpose. Something had confused 
him a woman’s cry. A piece of crumbling stone 
gave way beneath his heel, making him lose his balance. 
Vainly he swung his awkward arms trying to steady 


233 








The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


himself. Then there was a horrible shriek and the 
clumsy body went hurtling downwards. 

Felix closed his eyes and threw himself backwards, the 
old terrible death clutch at his heart. He was half con- 
scious of a pair of arms dragging him backwards. He 
tried to regain his feet, but the arms held him down and 
a deathlike weight fell across his chest—he fainted. 

There were quick cries of horror from below, increas- 
ing in volume like the droning of some great bee-hive, 
then silence once more reigned supreme. 

The flock of doves flew up from below, and settling 
down upon the weatherworn battlements, craned and 
twisted their sleek necks, eyeing the two silent figures 
suspiciously. The south wind soughed through the loop 
holes. The rent, blood-stained sleeve of Alina’s gown 
fluttered in the wind. The doves rose in a mass and flew 
away. 

One bare arm encircled his body. The other was about 
his neck, the tapering fingers lost in his flaxen hair. His 
silent face looked upwards. Her cheek was pillowed upon 
his breast. 

The dry grass rustled. Again the doves came, this time 
more boldly, only to circle away at sound of foot-steps, 
firm and quick. 

Ben awoke from his siesta with a vague sense of un- 
rest. He heard the cries of the crowd below. A boy 
who had outdistanced his mates came running up wild- 
eyed, breathless, with the grewsome news. 

“Felix! Alina! Where were they?” 


234 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


He hesitated not an instant, but hurried upwards, bend- 
ing all his strength to the task. 

““O God!” Ben’s ruddy face became ashen as he saw 
the two silent forms. Only the God to whom he had 
appealed knew the pain, the suffering, the love, the com- 
passion in that one short cry. 

He untwined her arms, gently disentangled the torn 
and bleeding fingers from the flaxen locks, and bore her 

to a bed of dry grass near by. As he started to put her 
- down, a great inward sob convulsed his frame. The 
dear, beautiful head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. 
He hesitated an instant only, but in that one short in- 
stant his resolves went to the winds. 

He strained the passive form to his breast and kissed 
the cold lips time and time again. Then he tore off his 
coat and put it gently beneath her head. 

There was a guilty look in his eyes as he bore Felix 
to a safe place muttering. “I ama brute! She is his— 
wholly his!” 

Penitent, with remorse and self-condemnation written 
upon his sturdy face, he lifted it heavenwards and vowed 
to renounce his love. 


235 


Chapter XXVI 


CC O; Potin is still alive! He may live for 
weeks!” 


They were waiting before the door of a 
thatched cottage at the foot of Mont Carmel where Ben 
had carried Alina. The Maitre and Mére Fouchet were 
with her. 

“Bah! I feel so weak.” Felix rose to his feet and 
threw back his shoulders with an impatient gesture, “ but 
it was all so sudden—so terrible that I—I—went all to 
pieces.” 

In the silence which followed, Ben started to his feet 
and paced the little dooryard anxiously. He heard the 
sound of many voices drawing nearer and nearer. Felix 
looked at him questioningly. The voices became more 
and more distinct. 

“Curse them! I knew they would do it!” Ben halted 
and looked down the lane. | 

“What? Do they think I tried to kill him?” Felix 
sprang up with horror struck eyes. | 

“Yes; they do! Pull yourself together old man or it 
will go badly with you.” 

Up the lane rode two gendarmes, their gorgeous trap- 
pings shining in the sunlight, sitting in their saddles with 
an insolence born of imposing uniforms and the craven 
fear of the peasantry. 

They turned now and then to warn back the hooting 
mob that crowded against their horses’ heels. Something 


236 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


scuffled and squirmed along before them, sending up 
clouds of dust. It was the Soldier of France, the per- 
spiration rolling down his dust-caked face in little gut- 
ters, as he turned from time to time and pointed ahead. 

At last he made a pirouette on his short crutch and 
pointing his index at Felix waited for the gendarmes. 
“There he is! Yes—he of the yellow hair. I saw him 
do it.” 

As he uttered the words a great shout went up from 
the crowd. There were imprecations, curses. “ Dirty 
Americans! Murderers! Cochons!” 

An old hag rushed forward and spat at Ben, but he 
never noticed it, his eyes were fixed upon the Soldier of 
France with a look of such withering disgust, that the 
beggar’s arm fell and he slunk away into the crowd. 

As the gendarmes delivered their orders in short, quick 
sentences, Ben lifted his hat with courtly grace (he al- 
ways knew when it paid to be polite) “ Messieurs; we 
will gladly accompany you.” 

Felix started forward with an angry denial upon his 
lips, resistance expressed in every movement and feature. 

“Stop! you are mad!” Ben caught his arm. ‘ These 
fellows are acting under orders. Don’t make a scene 
here. We must see their commanding officer. Mes- 
sieurs & votre service!” Again he lifted his hat and they 
fell in between the two horsemen whose bared sabers 
flashed in the sunlight as they beat back. the hooting 
crowd. 

There was a moment’s delay as Ben hesitated and 
started back towards the cottage. ‘“ Alina—what had 


237 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


she seen? Her testimony would be invaluable. He 
halted dejectedly, as Mére Fouchet appeared in the door- 
way and shook her head. Alina was recovering from the 
shock; she would be too weak to go with them. With 
grim face he fell doggedly into line once more. 

Down the shaded lane, out into the paved highway they 
went. At the windows and doorways curious excited 
faces peered forth. The news of the tragedy of Mont 
Carmel had traveled with lightning rapidity. 

“A bas les Américains! Down with the American 
hogs!’ The din of the clattering mob echoed between 
the narrow streets. The object of their hatred could be 
easily seen for he walked head and shoulders above the 
others, meeting the insulting epithets hurled from door- 
way and balcony with unflinching eyes. The weakness 
of a few moments ago was gone. He knew now that 
the tragedy of Mont Carmel might mean life or death 
for him. 

They passed the Great Stag Inn. Biza and Villequier 
looked down at them from an open window, surprise and 
wonderment upon their faces. The procession turned 
into a side street, so narrow that the crowd was forced 
up against the walls and into the open doors of houses 
and shops. Always under foot, kicked and pushed by 
the throng, the Soldier of France suddenly found him- 
self imprisoned in the small archway of a covered pas- 
sage debouching from a distant court-yard. He was 
vainly prodding the solid mass of humanity with his 
crutch when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a 
pair of cold, cruel eyes met his own. With suppressed 


228 





Court-yard of the Great Stag Inn. 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


excitement Miss Dolchester dragged him back into the 
dark recesses of the passageway. 

She shook him by the shoulder of his blouse and 
peered eagerly into his face—“ Swear it! do you hear? 
Swear it! Don’t let them frighten you. Swear that you 
saw him do it. Here—’” she thrust five shining Jowis into 
his hand, “ you shall have more!” 

The beggar’s eyes were staring. He trembled as he 
counted the pieces over in his dirty palms. “I swear it 
now and always Mademoiselle!” he tore off his hat with 
an elfish grin. “I must be off or I shall be too late. They 
are at the gendarmerie by this time.” He hobbled down 
the passage and turned into the street. 

Miss Dolchester loitered in the passage until silence 
reigned in the little street, then she cautiously made her 
way towards the river. As she approached the Great 
Stag she passed two of her table companions. 

“The English woman is not spirituelle,’ said Ville- 
quier as he locked his arm in Biza’s. 

“Spirituelle? Bah! She is as cold and slippery as an 
eel in a frozen pond, and as cruel as—Je ne sais pas quoi— 
the Lady Macbeth of her Shakespeare. That is how I 
read her face, and reading faces is my profession—eh, 
mon ami?” 

“And mine,” laughed Villequier. “I can always tell 
the color of the pill needed before they show their tongues. 
Ah; they are already excited over the young American.” 

The two Parisians approached the gendarmerie, a long 
low building over which floated the French tri-color. An 
excited, expectant throng filled the square. There were 


239 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


cries of “ Barboche! Barboche! Where is Barboche?” 
“Who is Barboche?” Biza accosted a gendarme in 
fatigue uniform, who passed them. 

“ The legless beggar ; the Soldier of France. He is the 
only witness. There he is!” and the gendarme pro- 
ceeded to cut his way through the crowd, the Soldier of 
France scuffling along in his wake. 

“ Shall we go in?” asked Biza, “these affairs furnish 
rare material. I know the commanding officer. I will 
send in my card.” 

Villequier shrugged his shoulders. “If you like.” 

It was a large, cheerless, white-washed room, The 
commanding officer sat at a desk. Before him stood 
Felix, a gendarme upon either hand. A group of would-be 
witnesses were grouped about the door. Ben stood a 
few paces away with folded arms and immobile face. 

“You say the American pushed him off?”’ The com- 
manding officer frowned over his fierce moustache. 

One of the gendarmes guarding Felix saluted, “ He 
did Monsieur.” 

“And who saw him do it?” | 

‘“ Barboche; Soldier of France; beggar on the National 
highway.” 

“Bring him in!” 

All eyes were turned towards the door as the beggar 
stumbled over the sill, he shuffled up to the desk, and pull- 
ing off his cap ducked his head. 

“ Barboche; Soldier of France; beggar; you were on 
Mont Carmel to-day and saw the American push Mon- 


240 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


sieur Potin of Blosseville, from the fortifications?’ The 
officer leaned forward and peered over his desk at the 
beggar. 

“TI swear it sir! I was there. The American quar- 
reled with him. He pushed him—so!” Barboche ac- 
companied his words with a forward movement of arms, 
his crutch slipped and he fell upon his open palms, while 
the stick went clattering across the floor. 

“Stand up, Barboche!’” A titter went round the room. 
Even the officer smiled at his own command, then he 
turned upon Felix. 

“The case is a serious one. What have you to say 
Monsieur ? ” 

“ Before God the beggar lies!” Felix spoke in fierce 
suppressed tones. “I never touched Potin! He was 
awkward, he stumbled and fell. He was about to as- 
sassinate me. He is a dangerous character. The Comte 
de Baigneur of Silleron, Seine Inférieure, who left here 
this morning would tell you so.” 

“You are friends of the Comte de Baigneur?” The 
officer’s voice softened perceptibly. 

“We are. My friend and I often visit him at his 
Chateau. 

“ Attention!” The officer tapped on his desk with his 
pencil. There was a sound of shuffling feet at the door, 
then a voice called out. “ Pardon Monsieur! May I 
speak? J am from Bréport. I know these gentlemen 
well. I know Monsieur Potin well. He is a good citizen. 
Monsieur (the speaker pointed his thumb at Felix) 


241 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


is an enemy of Potin’s. He assaulted him twice before. 
It was on a steamship coming from America. It is true; 
Potin has told me himself; Potin’s wife has told me; 
Potin’s daughter A 

“That will do! That will do!” The officer rapped his 
knuckles upon the desk. “ Who are you?” 

“Pére Boudin they call me at Bréport. Jean Jacques 
Boudin; letter carrier, town crier 

“Enough Boudin!” The officer turned to Felix. 
“Did you assault Potin as Monsieur Boudin states? ” 

“I did.” There were low murmurings and whispers 
from the back of the room. The officer rapped. Felix 
continued, “but with sufficient cause. I was protecting 
his wife. He was beating her. He is a brute! He ie 

“That will do! That will do! Enfin, you were angry 
with him again to-day.” The officer looked up. suspi- 
ciously, then he frowned. “ This is a case for the judge. 
I shall be obliged to imprison you. The testimony of 
these witnesses is too important to pass over.” 

“Monsieur!” Ben stepped forward. 

“T swear as a gentleman that my friend is beyond re- 
proach. Is the testimony of a gentleman of honor not 
worth more than that of a beggar in the road, or the 
gossip of Bréport?”’ He turned upon the letter carrier, — 
whose eyes rolled aimlessly about while his hand sought 
his weak, tobacco-stained mouth in an effort to appear 
at ease. 

“Non Monsieur! There are no social distinctions in 
cases of this sort. I am nota judge. My duty is to arrest 
where the case is suspicious, and this case is undeniably 


242 











The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


so.” He put on his pince-nez and began to fill out a blank 
lying upon the desk before him. 

Felix looked straight before him, one hand tightly 
clutching his coat lapel, the other twisting and turning 
his handkerchief which he had unconsciously rolled into 
a ball. 

Suddenly there was a commotion outside. Those in- 
side moved about restlessly, rising on their toes to look 
out of the open door. 

“Tf you please make way—let me pass!” Ben turned 
quickly, so did Felix at sound of the Master’s voice, but 
the commanding officer kept on writing until the clear 
ringing tones of a woman’s voice echoing between the 
bare walls brought him to his feet. 

“Why do you arrest Monsieur? You accuse . him 
falsely! I swear it! I was there! I am the only wit- 
ness!” Alina grasped the desk rail and stopped to catch 
her breath with wide indignant eyes, the pallor of her 
long fainting spell still overspreading her face. 

“Permit me to swear to the veracity of this young 
lady’s character. She will tell you only the truth!” The 
Maitre made a profound bow to the commanding officer 
who looked up with an incredulous smile. 

“She the only witness? and what of him? He saw 
the prisoner push him off.” He pointed at the Soldier 
of France who had slowly edged towards the door. 

Alina turned upon the beggar. “He? He saw him 
do it? It is a lie! A lie! He was not there! I swear 
he was not there!”’ She raised her bare right arm, from 
which hung the torn, blood-stained sleeve. 


243 


The HONOR of thee BRAXTONS 


“Mademoiselle is right! The beggar is a perjurer!” 
They all started and turned as Biza pushed his way 
through the crowd. “I was exploring the caverns lead- 
ing off from the moat of Mont Carmel this morning 
with my friend. I know the exact moment when Potin 
fell, for I heard him shriek. At that very moment I came 
upon this beggar, this traitor of France, hiding his cow- 
ardly filthy self behind a pile of stones.” Biza shrugged 
his shoulders and opened his palms. “So how could he 
have seen Potin fall? My friend you have no case! You 
must discharge the American! Look!” he laid his hand 
upon the officer’s arm. “ You see criminals day by day. 
You cannot doubt that face. The only witness is beyond 
suspicion.” He faced about and every eye in the room 
became fixed upon Alina. 

The officer fingered his glasses nervously for a mo- 
ment, then shrugging his shoulders rose to his feet as 
he tore up the paper before him, and motioned to the 
door. “ Lieutenant! Set the American free, and see that 
he comes to no harm.” 

“Wait!” Biza’s voice rang out again clear and com- 
manding. “Do you not count perjurers as criminals 
here in Grand Merville?” 

The officer flushed at the novelist’s audacity, but turned 
towards the door. “ Lieutenant! Arrest Barboche!” 

The Soldier of France had reached the porch fighting 
his way with fist and crutch, but the lieutenant dragged 
him into the middle of the floor, craven and whimpering. 

“The beggar was bribed! I will wager a thousand 
francs!” As Biza uttered the words the lieutenant jerked 


244 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


Barboche’s hand from his pocket, and five bright gold 
pieces went jingling along the floor. 

“Ah; I thought as much!” exclaimed Biza as he 
turned to Felix, ‘ You have an enemy! ” 


245 


Chapter XXVII 


HE forge of the village smithy sent a ruddy glow 
out through the battered doorway into the Sep- 


tember twilight. The: faces of the peasants 
standing in a semi-circle about the anvil reddened under 
the fierce flare of the fire. Their legs threw long spind- 
ling shadows across the dooryard. 

Blondel the smith, pulled a horseshoe out of the coals, 
it was at white heat. He struck it with heavy stolid 
blows which sent small meteoric showers of sparks out 
to the road. 

“Potin is a bon garcon.” The smith struck the 
rapidly cooling shoe a few superfluous taps, and thrust- 
ing it into the coals turned with one arm akimbo, the 
other working the bellows handle, to catch the words of 
the lime-kiln keeper whose chalky hair and inflamed eye- 
lids bespoke his occupation. 

“The only aubergiste in the department who gives 
credit! Eh Jean?” the lime-kiln keeper turned to the 
village cobbler, a pudgy little man with side whiskers. 

“ Mon Dieu, quel crédit! He would wait!” 

“‘Others have to wait too!” broke in the tinsmith, a 
little man with a sooty face. 

The butcher shrugged his fat shoulders. “ Who par 
example? The marchand de vin in Paris! He can afford 
to wait!” 

“Vous avez raison! He can wait till doomsday!” 
The company turned. Pére Boudin entered the doorway. 


246 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Doomsday? Why?” 

“Why? Potin is dying! I have just come from 
Blosseville.” 

“Poor Potin! No more drinks in his auberge!”’ The 
carpenter rubbed the sleeve of his blouse across his lips. 

“Yes; it is bien triste!’ echoed Boudin in perfunctory 
tones as he ran over his letters. “ How strange! A letter 
for Mere Fouchet. She never has letters—and here are 
two for the Americans.” : 

““A letter for the tow head?” cried the butcher, his 
heavy body convulsed with inward laughter. 

“Hist!” The letter carrier laid his finger against his 
nose and glanced over his shoulder. ‘“‘ He won't be get- 
ting them long! Why? Because he will be guillotined! ” 

“ Guillotined ? ” 

Five open mouthed faces with bulging eyes closed up 
to the letter carrier. 

“They say—mind messieurs—I/ don’t say so, but they 
say that there is new evidence—that if Potin dies % 

The letter carrier finished his sentence in graphic pan- 
tomime, laying his head upon the packet of letters in his 
left hand, he drew the forefinger of his right across his 
throat with a peculiar gurgling sound. 

“ Curse the Americans!” the smith struck the bellows 
handle a blow which made the fire leap up madly, send- 
ing a red glare over the six sinister faces. 

At sound of footsteps they fell away from the carrier. 
Their eyes sought the open door. A look of stolid im- 
mobility was upon each face as Ben, Alina and Felix 
crossed the field of light and disappeared in the twilight. 


247 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 
“Good night mes amis! I must deliver these letters.” 
The letter carrier pulled his vizored cap over his eyes and 
started off for Mére Fouchet’s. Two topics had fur- 
nished him abundant material for gossip for many weeks. 
The miraculous cure of the blind girl and the tragedy of 
Mont Carmel. Potin had been brought home by easy 
stages, and lay for the most of the time unconscious. 
When not unconscious the sick man cursed his inoffen- 
sive wife, his daughter, the food which they offered him. 
He cursed the neighbors who, with wheedling voices 
tried to coax a smile out of him, by telling tales of the 
“tow-headed American,” and of the “ whole pig-headed 
race of Americans.” 

Boudin knew well Mére Fouchet’s antipathy for Potin, 
and as he approached her cottage a cunning smile 
twitched his weak mouth into maudlin lines. Mere 
Fouchet had put a kettle on the fire and seated upon a 
low-bench, bellows in hand, was coaxing the colza stalks 
into a blaze. 

“A letter from your cousin at Canteleu, Mére Fou- 
chet!”” Boudin entered the open door and tossed the 
letter upon the table. ‘When you answer it tell her 
that Potin is worse.”’ 

He looked over his shoulder at Mére Fouchet as he 
turned to leave, then he stopped and fidgeted with his 
packet of letters, “ Potin will be dead before she can get 
it.’ Again he raised his eyebrows and looked at Mere 
Fouchet. 

The wheezing of the bellows was the only response. 


248 





Pere Boudin and the Miller. 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


She had said “ Merci,’ as he tossed the letter upon the 
table that was all. 

“The doctor says he will die within twenty-four 
hours. They are quite sure now that his neck is broken.” 

The bellows clattered to the floor; the bench was over- 
turned with a crash. Mere Fouchet stood firmly on her 
feet with her arms akimbo, her eyes flashing fiercely. 

“Thank the bon Dieu that his cursed neck is broken! 
Thank the bon Dieu that he can no longer beat his poor 
wife. Thank the bon Dieu that he can no longer rear 
children to inherit his hellish ways, like the one who 
used to sleep there!” she pointed at Alina’s room. 

“T tell you Boudin, he is no kin to me if he did marry 
my daughter. Go! Go! Fool! Busybody! And come 
here no more whining about Jacques Potin! Go, I say!” 

She pointed at the door, the room vibrating with the 
detonations of her voice, which had risen to a shriek. 

Pére Boudin’s watery eyes rolled aimlessly for a mo- 
ment; his hand weakly sought his mouth, out of the 
corners of which trickled little rivulets of liquid tobacco, 
then the look of the busybody, the breeder of calumny 
returned to his leathery wrinkled face. He turned back 
upon her with an impudent shrug. He feared no woman, 
least of all an old grandmother like Mére Fouchet. 

As he approached he shook his bony hand in her face. 
“And she who sleeps in yonder bed now? What of her? 
Is she a whit better than Potin’s daughter?” 

Before the sound of his voice had died away, Mére 
‘Fouchet’s strong arms pinioned his own to his sides, there 


249 


Ihe HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


was a muttered curse in his ear. He was hurled head- 
long through the open door. He landed in a bed of briars. 
The cottage door closed with a bang. All was quiet 
save Boudin’s groans as he rubbed his knees and sought 
for his spectacles. He picked up his cap and scattered 
letters and once more started on his rounds, stopping 
only to shake his fist at Mére Fouchet’s door. 

As he passed from door to door the peasants marveled 
at his silence, but a question here or a bit of news there 
soon restored him to a sense of his own importance. 

The children would crowd about him with chunks of 
bread in their hands, their faces smeared with confiture, 
and listen with wide opened eyes. The parents would 
turn grave and ask “ What of Potin?”’ 

“Potin? Ah yes; poor Potin!” The letter carrier 
would wag his head dismally. “The doctor says he will 
surely die.” 

“ And the American?” 

Boudin’s shoulders would rise. “Ah; who knows 
what will happen to him, I don’t. But listen—they say—” 
his finger would fall upon the side of his nose, and they 
would crane their necks and listen. 

So from door to door the seed of hatred was sown by 
a poor weak fool, to whom gossip was as the staff of 
life. 

As he pulled the bell rope at the gate of the walled 
cottage a smile of satisfaction lighted his face, for one 
of the letters which he held in his hand had not been 
properly stamped. There were twenty-five centimes to 
collect. 

250 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Ben answered his ring, and vainly hunted his pockets 
for change, then said, ‘“ Wait an instant—perhaps Mon- 
sieur Felix has it.” 

As Ben turned away Boudin gazed within the enclosure 
with greedy eyes. Here was fresh material for gossip. 
The yard was littered with packing-boxes. “ Then the 
Americans are on the point of leaving?” 

Curiosity got the better of discretion. He gradually 
edged up the walk until he could see through the lighted 
window. A table was spread, Felix had tilted his chair 
backwards and was going through his pockets for sous, 
while Ben waited. Alina sat watching him, her elbows 
resting upon the table, her fingers idly toying a spray 
of water cress which garnished a fowl just brought in 
by the old peasant cook. 

Ben frowned as he ran against Boudin in the dark- 
ness. “ Here!” He dropped the money into the car- 
riers box and pointed at the gate. 

Boudin looked up at him with puckered lips and raised 
eyebrows. 

“Has Monsieur heard the news?”’ 

Ben made no reply but frowned blackly. He stood 
still pointing fixedly at the gate. 

“Then Monsieur knows that Potin is dying?” 

“Go! I tell you!” Ben gave the letter carrier a 
shove which sent him spinning down the walk. As he 
disappeared in the darkness, Ben closed and bolted the 
gate. 

“Potin is dying?” Alina looked up at Ben with 
troubled eyes as he stood opening his letter. Her glance 


251 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


fell to thé bright green cresses in her fingers, then 
traveled anxiously across the table to Felix who sat be- 
fore the fire. Although it was not cold, he leaned for- 
ward with thin transparent hands stretched out to the 
blaze. His face had steadily. grown paler since that day 
upon Mont Carmel. : 

The fear which had clutched his heart so mercilessly, 
blotting out that one rapturous glimpse of a promised 
land was doing its deadly work. 

Ben and Alina had both seen it. They had talked it all 
over time and time again, viewing the matter from every 
point. They must get him away. Nothing but a change 
of scene, a fresh start with new surroundings would do. 

Alina must stay, there were toiles for her to finish. 
Had not Schock said that she would be the Rosa Bonheur 
of her country, could she have but one more year with 
him? 

“The Inseparables’’ must be separated. Aye; there 
was the rub. Ben had cast about for anything to look 
at when talking the matter over with her. The sky, the 
sea, the gulls, anything but her eyes; he could not look 
into them. | 

“T am glad those cases are all packed.” Ben turned 
to Alina with lowered eyes as he calmly folded the letter 
and thrust it into his pocket. “ My father is ill, he has 
been failing for some time. We must sail day after 
to-morrow.” 

Felix looked up with dumb reproach in his eyes, and 
Ben fell to pacing the floor. 


252 


Chapter XXVIII 


. HOST of men, women, youths and girls traveled 


steadily onwards like an army of locusts, level- 

ing the ripe colza plants with knife and sickle, 
tying them into bunches which were stacked in huge 
piles. 

Another army of men spread great canvas cloths upon 
the ground, upon which they strewed the plants knee- 
deep. Big-footed farm horses were then driven over 
them, threshing out the seed from bursting pods as they 
pranced and galloped under the lashes of their drivers. 

It was the harvesting of the colza. Could the Parisians 
sitting within the glow of the burning colza oil conjure 
up more lovely scenes than those of the harvest ? 

According to the colza harvest went the luck of the 
people of Bréport and the outlying villages. Along the 
banks of Bréport’s one stream were the colza mills with 
old-fashioned water wheels, where the oil was extracted 
from the seed, after it had been steamed and packed into 
cloth bags. 

“The Inseparables ” drove between the busy fields for 
the last time. Felix’s eyes lingered upon tantalizing 
schemes of color which the faded blues, reds and browns 
of the peasants’ costumes presented, always relieved by | 
the blue sky and masses of golden colza. 

As the afternoon wore on a figure plodded up from the 
valley with purposeless tread. At first she stopped from 


253 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


time to time to chat with the workers, but the conversa- 
tions always ended with—“ And your father? What of 
him?” until her face wore the hunted look of a driven 
beast, and her eyes sought the sod beneath her feet. 

She began to avoid the reapers as she had the thank- 
less bedside of the cursing brute at home. It had become 
intolerable. She could stand no more. She had fled to 
the fields. Seeking a shady spot beneath a great stack of 
colza plants, she threw herself down and watched the 
distant harvesters. 

She could hear the hum of their voices, their snatches 
of song, their rude jesting; then another sound, that of 
a voice singing made her lean far out upon an arm and 
peer down the road towards Sotteville. 

Yes; she had thought as much, it was Captain Burns. 
She recognized his swinging sailor gait, the bronzed face, 
the black merry eyes, the dusky curls under his sailor’s 
béret. 

The song he sang she also knew. He had sung it so 
often when she and the other fisher girls had gone on 
board the Princess Beatrice, and had drank the health of 
the handsome young captain in the sloop’s little cabin, so 
sweet and clean compared with the fish boats of Sotte- 
ville. But what wonder when its cargoes were always 
the clean crisp potatoes of Normandy, which the sloop 
carried to London during the autumn months. She 
waited with downcast eyes until his joyous cry told her 
that he had discovered her; then she looked up at him, 
something akin to pleasure lighting her face. 

Here was a diversion. Here at least her slightest look 


254 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


or action would meet with worshipful glances instead of 
scowls and curses. 

The Jerseyman’s French was not always easy to under- 
stand, but the black, glowing eyes filled the void so 
ardently that Lili’s cheeks which the sick room had paled, 
flushed pink again and again. 

He was so handsome, so intelligent; so unlike these 
clumsy countrymen about her. He could tell her so much 
of the outside world. His mind was not bent on crops 
and cattle and fish alone. 

“ Listen my little Normandy rose.” She could feel his 
breath upon her cheek. ‘“‘ The Princess Beatrice sails to- 
night on the flood tide. They will never know how or 
where you went. Don’t say no again!” His arm rustled 
through the dry colza twigs at her back and settled about 
her waist. The black burning eyes were begging, tor- 
turing, tempting. Then of a sudden she drew herself 
away. Something was running in her head—‘‘If you 
love me live a pure life.” 

“Ah Dieu!” She gasped as though in pain and 
passed her hand before her eyes. How hard—how use- 
less it was to struggle. She held him off at arms’ length, 
a hand upon either shoulder, he begging, imploring, en- 
ticing with those eyes which must have descended from 
some son of Capri. She looking with distraught gaze 
far out over the high road. A two-wheeled farm cart 
came rattling down the slope. Felix was driving. Be- 
side him sat Alina. They were talking intently, their 
heads close together. The Jerseyman felt his shoulders 
within a grip of steel. The face before him became cold 


255 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


and hard. The hands relaxed their vice-like hold and 
flew to her eyes; then she cast herself face down in the 
colza, panting and heaving with inward passion. 

The Jerseyman sprang to his feet with an impatient 
gesture, his black brows knitted, his eyes burning with 
jealousy. “You care for another. Good-bye; I am 
going!” 

“No! No! Stay! Listen!” She dragged him down 
beside her. “I will go! Do you hear? I will go to-night 
—to-night!”’ 

She uttered the words over and over eagerly, rapidly, 
as though by the very repetition of her resolve the de- 
parture could be hastened. 

“ But listen!” She struggled to her feet. “ My peo- 
ple must not know. Auguste, the beast whom my father 
would have me marry must not know. Not a living soul 
must know. 

“You cannot take me on at the basin, that will never 
do. But at ten o’clock row your skiff to the old fisher- 
man’s pier. You know; outside towards Bréport. Tie 
it under the pier—When the Princess Beatrice tacks out 
on the full tide at midnight, I will be off the Smuggler’s 
Gorge waiting for you—I can row—Now go mon cher! 
No—No—Not yet!’” The ardent eyes, the strong arms 
were already claiming their due. She wrested herseli 
away and pointed down the road. “Go! We must not 
be seen together.” 

Like a whipped dog sent to his kennel, the sailor took 
his departure, gloating over, yet only half believing his 
good fortune. 


256 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Throwing herself down again she waited until his foot- 
falls were lost in the distance; then taking her way across 
the plain she descended into the outskirts of Sotteville 
by a sunken lane. 

What use was there in being pure after all? What 
did it matter to him? Poor, ignorant, untutored Lili. 
Purity for purity’s sake meant nothing to her. Purity 
for Felix’s sake had meant everything, but now—what 
need was there of being pure, it was so triste. 

She came up the slope through a copse by the edge of 
the plain towards Blosseville. She stopped suddenly with 
parted lips and half-closed eyes.. Was it a canary sing- 
ing so merrily or the piping of a lark mounting higher 
and higher above her head that made her see a wide | 
sunny balcony also high in air? <A blue sky overhead, 
the lace work of Notre Dame’s aged fagade over the 
way, a figure in the shade—that of a woman lying 
upon a little couch, her head embedded in cushions—the 
opening of a door—quick footsteps—a joyous cry—the 
rude warm clasp of yearning arms and—now what? 

Galling, tormenting images surged through the poor, 
unreasoning brain as she plodded on with spiritless steps. 

Why now? Why at this moment when goaded to mad- 
ness by an ungovernable jealousy, should she look through 
the open gate of a milk farm full upon them sitting there 
by the door, surrounded by a host of farm fowl, he hold- 
ing a glass aloft, his face beaming with the old, simple, 
boyish joy, as he toasted Alina with the pure, fresh milk 
which the farm wife poured out for them. 

They started and turned as the farm dog dashed at the 


25/7 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


gate with barks and much ado. There were footfalls in 
the lane. The dog returned wagging his tail as they 
rapidly died away. 

'The plain was suffocatingly hot. There was that in the 
air which foretold a coming storm. 

Lili plodded on seeing nothing, hearing nothing, only 
alive to a bitter galling hatred, born of an insane jealousy. 
What from the heat within her head and that which beat 
down upon it from without, she was all but swooning, as 
she once more threw herself down in the cooling moss 
and ferns of the wood of Blosseville, only to moan and 
sob and start up again with convulsive movements, tear- 
ing up great clods of moss, gazing about with vacant 
restless eyes. 

“He shall not! He shall not! He is little Lili’s— 
only little Lili’s.” 

There was something savage, bestial in her cry as she 
set her firm white teeth into the arm against which her 
cheek rested, until bright red globules started up from 
the livid flesh. 

A hand seized her by the shoulder, shaking her roughly. 
“ Get up ingrate! Fool! You had much better be weep- 
ing for your good father than that yellow-haired 
American.’ 

“T hate the American!” Lili was upon her feet, her 
eyes blazing with demoniacal fire. “Do you hear? I 
could kill the American!” 

Miss Dolchester’s cold green eyes were fixed full upon 
the girl before her with diabolical intent. “ Your father 


258 








““ Through the open gate of a milk-farm.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


is dying—the American ought to be guillotined for it— 
those who saw him do it are afraid to testify—” 

“Tam not!” There was a wild cunning look in Lili’s 
eyes. She caught Miss Dolchester by the arm. “The 
American did it! I saw him push my father off! He 
did! He did! I swear it!” Her fingers twitched as 
she held them aloft. 

Miss Dolchester smiled and nodded her head towards 
the auberge. “Come! You are needed at home.” 

Lili obeyed, but she walked as a somnambulist walks, 
neither seeing nor caring for what lay in her path. 

As the afternoon wore on, groups of women gathered 
about the auberge, standing in the dooryard muttering 
in low tones. 

Later on, men in Sunday blouses knocked idly about 
in the underbrush kicking aimlessly at rotten stumps, 
wagging their heads, muttering always in their unmusical 
patois. 

Miss Dolchester sat before her easel in the arbor out- 
side, cold, calm, apparently indifferent to all that trans- 
pired about her. She worked industriously, as though 
the last séance, with Potin as model, had not been ter- 
minated by the approach of the grim visitor. She had 
painted in the sick room for two weeks, with but one 
end in view, a picture that would stagger the realists and 
bring her fame. She wore a satisfied smile. The toile 
was a success. She could already see the crowd about 
the “ Dying Peasant,” as it hung on the line in the Salon. 
With deft brush work, a clever blending of tones with 


259 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


the thumb or palette knife, she put the viceute through 
the “ pulling together’ process. 

Always apparently indifferent to what transpired out- 
side, but ever stopping to peer through the vines as new 
comers appeared upon the scene, she smiled and plotted 
and worked. 

No—not now; not till the flood tide of their anger 
reaches its height, as they sit about this very table must 
the blow be struck. 

As nightfall approached the sympathizers were rein- 
forced by those whose trades had detained them during 
the day. 

Pére Boudin came driving up in his donkey cart; he 
had just finished his last round. The blacksmith came 
looming through the dusk like some big black giant. 
~Then the tinsmith and cobbler came together, both little 
men who feared the darkness and the death so close at 
hand. 

Auguste, the would-be son-in-law upon whom was to 
fall the mantle of the aubergiste, sat surlily in the café 
where he dispensed drinks, keeping an eye upon Lili as 
she passed in and out with listless steps, filling the doc- 
tor’s orders. 

As the night darkened there was less to do; the dying 
man was unconscious, so Lili climbed to her loft and sat 
staring into the flickering candle flame, neither seeing 
nor hearing, dazed into passive indifference by that to 
which she had set her hand. 

She sat there for a long time; how long she never 
knew; then she sprang to her feet as a cry, a sad wail 


260 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


rang out into the woods, echoing through the avenues 
of pines. It was the cry of the wife who had borne the 
blows, the cuffs, the curses. It was a cry that told of 
love and devotion in spite of a life of misery and 
suffering. 

Jacques Potin was dead. A whispering, gossiping 
crowd filled the café. Black-hooded widows came steal- 
ing in one by one to console the wife. If Potin’s char- 
acter as proclaimed that night in the death chamber could 
have been emblazoned upon a tablet, only those brought 
down from the mount by the great prophet could have 
surpassed it in virtue. This may have been largely owing 
to the mellowing qualities of Potin’s liquors, which 
Auguste had been serving with a free hand ever since 
darkness had set in. 

The comforters dropped, away one by one as the night 
wore on until only Potin’s intimates were left sitting 
about the long narrow table in the little arbor where they 
had gone, to avoid the heat of the café, and to talk more 
freely. A farm lantern suspended from the roof illumi- 
nated the circle of faces. 

“ A good man was Potin!” The blacksmith filled his 
glass again. 

“A father and husband!” exclaimed Pére Boudin, as 
he folded his red cotton handkerchief over his long thin 
nose and blew a loud blast within its depths. 

“ And still would be were it not for the cursed Ameri- 
can.” muttered Auguste, with a side glance at Lili who 
sat beside him, hem eyes roving restlessly. She started 
slightly as he spoke; then her cheek fell into her palm 


261 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


and she never saw that her elbow, which rested upon the 
table was overturning the cobbler’s glass. 

“In England murderers are not allowed to go free!” 
The company turned at sound of Miss Dolchester’s voice. 
She had loitered about the auberge ever since nightfall, 
and now stood at the end of the table, her canvas in one 
hand, her paint-box in the other, as though about to 
depart.. “ They are not allowed to go driving about the 
country with their paramours.” 

“Ho! Ho!” Pére Boudin laughed. “To be sure! I 
met them in the woods over yonder. Turtle doves— 
Pretty birds—’’ 

Lili jerked her arm off the table so suddenly that all 
the glasses jingled together, setting up a merry chime. 

Her hands were doubled into rigid knots; her face be- 
came set in hard, vindictive lines. She breathed quicker 
and quicker. 

Miss Dolchester leaned over the table as she laid her 
paint-box upon it. ‘There are cowards among you! 
Not one of you dare swear that the American did it! 
Not one of you! Cowards—all of you! Bah!” She 
swept her open hand across the arbor with a gesture of 
contempt, and catching up her paint-box disappeared. 

“Turtle doves—pretty birds.” murmured Boudin, 
looking down at his glass with scared eyes. 

“He did it! I saw it! The American pushed him 
off!’ Lili was on her feet, her face contorted with 
passion. ‘‘ Why don’t you go to Saint Valéry for the 
gendarmes? I swear he did it! I swear I saw him—O 
go! Go! Why don’t you go?” She faced about, pant- 


262 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ing, and looked at Auguste. He drew her down beside 
him with an exclamation of delight. “ You will swear 
it little one?” . 

“TI will swear it!” 

Before a’ judge?” 

“Before a judge—but go! Why don’t you go?” 
Again ‘she was on her feet, wild-eyed, restless. Again 
Auguste drew her down and kept his arm close about her 
waist. His square jaws were set in determined lines. 
He was only too willing to act. 

“Listen mes amis! I will go for the gendarmes now 
or it will be too late! The yellow head leaves for Amer- 
ica in the morning! Boudin—you stay here! You 
Blondel stay also!’’ He moved as though about to leave, 
but the letter carrier raised his hand exclaiming—‘“‘ One 
moment Auguste!’’ He whispered in the blacksmith’s 
ear; they both smiled facetiously, then Boudin rose to his 
feet. “The daughter’s testimony will avenge her noble 
parent’s death. Auguste—we drink the good health of 
your future wife!” 

He leered across the table at Lili as he extended his 
glass towards her. Her answer was a savage cry, as, 
wrenching herself from Auguste’s embrace she tore 
Boudin’s glass from his hand and hurled it into his face. 
Then looking neither to right nor left she fled into the 
blackness. 

She had been staring at the lantern so long that she 
could not see. She ran blindly with hands extended 
before her, from what? Auguste? whose voice she could 
hear storming and cursing? The blacksmith? who once 


263 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


was close upon her heels? No—but from a gentle, pale 
face with a crown of shining, flaxen hair, which had 
flashed before her with reproachful blue eyes as the 
letter carrier offered his toast. 

On she ran, stumbling over rocks, striking trees with 
such force as to reel backwards half stunned, then on 
again—on—on—the fair, tender face shining brighter, 
brighter, until her foot caught in a creeper and she feil 
face down. Then the floodgates of regret were loosed; 
the tears came, and with them an untold horror at what 
she had done. 

“Tf you love me live a pure life.” 

Ah! Merciful God, how she loved him. 

All trembling, weak, unnerved, a poor suffering thing 
she lay there in the blackness, the words ringing in her 
ears. Then she started up again horrified. She could 
hear Auguste’s voice, he was going for the gendarmes. 
“Dieu!” What had she done? Felix to be arrested? 
She started back to stop Auguste, then halted again as 
she remembered how many had witnessed her oath. 

With palms pressed against her temples she tried to 
think. Then of a sudden her face lighted. She became 
calm as-she cautiously picked her way out of the woods 
and ran swiftly across the plain towards Bréport. 


264 


Chapter XXIX 


OR the last time the celestial choir had swept 
1) through the dusty old arches. For the last time 
Felix sat before the organ of Sotteville, and with 
uplifted, inspired face filled the place with melody. Alina 
sat by the confessional box. The sails of the little fish- 
ing fleet above her head had quivered with the rich vibra- 
tions, and two girlish figures came gliding in at the door. 
Felix stopped playing as a pair of happy innocent eyes 
lighted with intelligence and religious fervor, looked up 
at him from the dingy stairs of the organ loft. 

“Ah Monsieur; how blessed that I can see you make 
God’s music! ” 

“God’s music, my little Marie?” He turned a peace- 
ful inspired face upon her as his slender fingers glided 
over the keys into a maze of minor modulations. 

“Yes; God’s music. How can you make such music 
and not be near God?” Her hands were clasped upon 
her breast; tears of ecstatic joy were in her eyes. 

His hands left the keys. He turned as she drew near 
and passed an arm about her. “So you think a heretic 
can sometimes get near God.” He smiled, then he be- 
came serious as his long fingers again caressed the yellow 
keys. ‘“‘ Pray for me little one. Will you? Pray that 
I may be always there.” 

“As God gives me breath and life I will Monsieur, 
and so will Celeste.” 

Celeste stood silently by with downcast eyes and 


265 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


quivering lip. Once more the celestial symphony swept 
through the old Norman church and Felix was happy. 

They made Celeste and Marie lunch with them be- 
neath the trees within the shade of the church wall. The 
lunch had been specially prepared for the occasion by 
_ Mére Fouchet. There were head cheeses, delicious tart- 
lettes and galettes. Luscious plums and grapes and re- 
freshing coffee which Ben brought from the café over 
the way. 

When it came time to start home again, Ben caused 
riot and confusion in the camp. No, nothing would do 
but that he must walk home by the short path across the 
cliffs. He had packing to do; bills to pay in the village. 
Felix and Alina needn’t hurry. They could drive back 
by Silleron and have a last look at the Chateau. 

So they had driven through the long hot afternoon, a 
happy, contented look in Felix’s eyes, a strange clutching 
sensation in Alina’s throat whenever she thought of the 
morrow and the loneliness it would bring to her. All 
through the last dinner with Ben and Felix at the cottage, 
she had thought of it, and now with the blackness all 
about her, with the mutterings of an approaching storm 
keeping up a running accompaniment, she still thought 
of it as she sat in her bedroom window trying to catch 
any air that might be stirring. 

She loved her boys. with the same impartial love that 
had started so naturally, with such simple naiveté on that 
morning when she had burst through the hedge upon 
them as they sat at work. 


266 


Ihe HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


How long it seemed since then, and yet it was only a 
year; a year filled with untold happiness, although there 
had been suffering as well which counted not in the sum- 
ming up. 

Her “ Plowman ” was still unfinished. She would take 
it up again and work—work, and try to forget that “ The 
Inseparables ” had been separated. Work so well that 
Ben and Felix would some day be proud of her. 

The tight feeling in her throat came again, and laying 
her head upon the window sill, she sobbed softly. 

As though it were an echo, there came up from out the 
darkness below her another sob and she sat up listening, 
waiting, wondering. 

It came again and again. She leaned out over the 
sunken lane and beheld a dusky figure standing with 
upraised arms. 

“Mademoiselle! The gendarmes! They are coming 
to arrest him! Quick—help me to save him!” — 

Alina caught at the sill. “To arrest whom? Mon- 
sieur Felix? Why ” she smiled incredulously. ‘“ He 
is innocent! I was there! I know!” 

“ Innocent—yes innocent as God’s angels—but—but— 
ah——” 

The woman below seemed choking with emotion. 
“Dieu me sauve! Some one has sworn—forsworn their 
soul to Hell—tied! lied! lied! that they saw him do it. 
O quick Mademoiselle! He has bitter enemies, they will 
have him dead—guillotined! O Mademoiselle go quickly 
to the cottage—tell him to wait with his friend at the 


267 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Smugglers’ Gorge—a boat will be there—the potato 
sloop’s skiff. I will see to it. He can escape to England 
and they will never know—Quick! Quick!” 

The hoarse whisper died away into the night as Alina 
crept across the room and out into the dooryard so care- 
fully that even restless little Jack slept on and never 
knew. 

Free of the pebbly walk and the creaking gate, she 
sped up the lane and into the cool depths of the Leper’s 
Road. She could see the path but dimly as she hurried 
along. She imagined once or twice that a shadowy form 
was flitting on before, sometimes far ahead, sometimes 
quite near. 

As she neared the open space before the chapel she could 
see more distinctly and her heart gave a throb of pity as 
she saw a peasant woman running painfully as though 
half spent, her hand at her side. She disappeared behind 
the chapel and in a moment appeared upon the plain 
beyond, still running towards Sotteville. 

Poor Lili! She struggled, panted, moaned as she hur- 
ried on, fearful lest she might be too late, only comforted 
by the thought that there was a dead calm and that it 
would delay the Jerseyman. 

The Fisherman’s Pier was rotten and disused. It had 
been a flimsy affair at its best. She ran eagerly over the 
rotting boards balancing herself with an old net pole 
which she had picked up at the pier head. 

The Jerseyman had been true to his word. There was 
the skiff rising and falling upon the midnight tide. 

P * * * 


* 
268 





PESTS: 


A Potato Boat. 


“y) 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The Smugglers’ Gorge was damp and lonely. They 
waited in a cave cut into the foot of the great, chalk 
cliff by countless tides. 

Under the faint glow of a muffled lantern it looked 
weird and forbidding. Diabolical shapes worn in the 
soft chalk strata, with jagged pieces of black flint jutting 
forth upon every side. suggested some ghastly chamber 
of the Inquisition. 

It was not until they had discovered the cave that they 
had dared light the lantern. The descent through the 
Smugelers’ Gorge had been most difficult. The men had 
begged Alina to say good-bye at the top of the cliff, but 
she would not listen to them. She feared neither the 
darkness nor the coming storm. 

“T hope this is not some beastly trap that they have 
set for us.” Ben lighted a cigarette and began to pace 
back and forth over a small stretch of sand before the 
cave’s mouth. “ You are quite sure it is all right Alina? ”’ 

“As sure as I am that that is Saint Margaret’s light.” 
She raised her hand and pointed through the night. 

“And you say a peasant warned you?” Felix looked 
up from his place beside the lantern, about which he had 
wrapped some wet sea weed in order to screen it. 

“Yes; but I couldn’t see who it was—the voice 
sounded honest though.” Alina spoke with averted face, 
her eyes still fixed upon Saint Margaret’s light. Why 
need he know that Lili warned them. 

“ T am glad that I have at least one friend among them.” 
He started up and gazed long and searchingly towards 
Sotteville. 


269 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


A long, painful silence fell upon them. A silence bur- 
dened with memories; the agony of parting, the loneli- 
ness of coming weeks. 

Ben dare not speak lest he reveal his love. Felix dare 
not so much as look at her, yet he unconsciously disclosed 
his love by every word and action. 

All unconscious of this; begrudging each fleeting mo- 
ment; suffering from the unrest that forestalls every 
leave-taking, Alina watched her comrades with moist 
eyes. 

They had become hers through months of tender care 
and sympathy. Their joys had been hers. The sharing 
of their misfortunes had been all the compensation she 
desired, excepting their affection. She could not meas- 
ure her love for them. As soon think of measuring the 
joy which they had brought into her life, or try to meas- 
ure the contentment at being always understood. 

The suspense of the moment seemed to pervade the air. 
An ominous stillness was upon the face of nature. Not 
a ripple broke the glassy surface of the sea. Only the 
lazy swish of the gentle swell as it broke upon the beach 
could be heard. 

Now and then the muffled thunder rolled heavily. 
They could feel the vibrations beneath their feet as they 
stood waiting—watching. 

Presently a new sound coming from the direction of 
Sotteville made them start and listen with bated breath. 
It was the quick regular thud—thud of a pair of oars 
straining in their locks. 

“Boys!” The one word, half sobbed, half spoken, 


270 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


startled the two men. She looked up into their faces, the 
dear honest eyes all tearful, her hands clutched behind, 
her arms straining nervously. “My dears! My boys! 
I will—I must tell you how I love you. It has all been 
so sweet—so unlike anything I ever knew before. I 
never had sisters—brothers—father—to love. Only an 
uncle and he called me queer because I wasn’t like other 
girls; because I did things my own way. You never 
called me queer, boys; you always understood—you— 
you—” ‘The tightness in her throat stifled her for a 
moment. Thud—thud—thud—came the sound of the 
rowers’ strokes, nearer and nearer. 

She cast an anxious glance into the darkness. Some 
instinct told her that the strokes were not those of a 
man—that Lili was rowing the boat. It must end then 
here—now—instantly. 

She started forward. Was it to give the commonplace 
hand shake? Perhaps it had been her intention. They 
should, they must know that she loved.them both more 
than anything else on earth. 

It came so quick, like the passing of a sigh, this last, 
this only embrace, that the two men stood for a moment 
half dazed, looking into the blackness where she had 
flown. : 

With the soft touch of her hair still upon his cheek, 
the pressure of her lips still upon his own, Felix stood 
trembling. 

Ben’s chest rose and fell convulsively. He still felt 
the warm clinging arms about his neck. The oar strokes 
sounded close at hand. The boat grated upon the beach. 


271 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Come! we must go!” Ben turned towards Felix, 
they stood face to face then it was that Felix dis- 
covered Ben’s secret. 





2k *K aK x cg 


Propelled by Ben’s powerful strokes, the cranky little 
flat-bottomed skiff glided seawards. From his seat in 
the stern Felix could see a dark form crouching in the 
bows, the friendly peasant who had served him such a 
good turn. 

He was too weak to think. The tension of the parting 
just over was relaxing its hold. He felt only a death- 
like indifference to all that was going on. One thought 
loomed up before him in gigantic proportions—Alina had 
gone out of his life—perhaps forever. He covered his 
face with his hands and leaned forward upon his knees. 
Ben rowed and rowed, the silent figure in the stern 
swaying with each vigorous stroke. He kept his course 
by the lightning flashes which constantly revealed the 
familiar landmarks of Bréport. 

He turned occasionally to scan the glassy sea with anx- 
ious eyes. He dared not think what would be their fate 
should they by any chance miss the potato sloop. 

A touch on the arm, a quick whisper warned him that 
he must stop rowing. They must wait and watch. So 
they waited and watched. It seemed long, interminable 
ages to Ben, but the night gave up nothing save the 
fierce flashes of lightning and the roar of the thunder. 

Now and then the wind came in short, fitful gusts, 
churning the water into myriads of little waves which 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


beat against the sides of their cockle shell with mimic 
fury. 

Suddenly there came a brilliant flash, and with it a clap 
of thunder that made the boat tremble from stem to 
stern. 

Felix caught the boat’s side with blanched face as the 
cry of a terrified woman rose above the thunder rolls. 
“Row! Row! or you are lost! See! over there—they 
cross our bows! O God if I could only help!” Her 
cry was lost in the din of another crash almost over 
their heads. Ben set his teeth and pulled with all his 
might, never losing his presence of mind. Suddenly 
Felix heard him giving sharp, quick orders. “ Quick 
Felix! My box of fusees—waistcoat pocket! Here— 
this side! Stand up! Light one! Take care! Brace 
yourself!” 

As Felix struck the fusee his white face stood forth 
from the murky darkness like the materialization of some 
unhappy spirit. : 

The crouching form in the bow turned within its nar- 
row space and a troubled face looked up at him. Great 
sad eyes mutely begging forgiveness, glowing with a 
great love, maybe born of pees yet grown nobler 
through pain. 

O how she loved that pale face. Would she not starve, 
drown, die for him? and yet—O God! She covered 
her eyes in bitter remorse. An hour ago she had all but 
perjured his life away. 

The torture, the hate, the hell of an unreasoning jeal- 
ousy had been as nothing compared with this remorse; 


273 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


this desolation of death, for she knew there was no life 
without him. 

As the fusee went out, shouts came to them across the 
water. They were seen. Ben labored on for some mo- 
ments when something like a moan of despair escaped his 
lips. Felix turned in his seat and beheld a great gray wall 
travelling towards them with awful rapidity. 

Before he could turn again Ben gave a joyful cry, and 
dropping an oar he seized a rope which came coiling 
down from out the darkness, striking him upon the hand. 
He could hear the command of the sailor who had thrown 
it to make fast. 

The sloop had beaten up against the light breeze to 
meet them. They could hear the reefed mainsail come 
rattling down, and the captain’s quick orders. 

“Name of a dog! What won’t a woman do?” Cap- 
tain Burns scowled as he caught the skiff’s painter and 
made it fast. “Lend a hand! Quick Messieurs! I am 
short of men.” 

Lili stood holding the skiff in place with a short boat 
hook as the men scrambled aboard and hurried forward. 
The Captain swept his lantern before her face as he 
hastened after them. She met his jealous glance with a 
look of sullen defiance. 

They were still struggling with the jib, which swelled 
and writhed about like some huge sea monster when the 
storm burst upon them. 

The sloop keeled and Felix suddenly found himself 
lying in the lee scuppers which were awash. Half 
stunned, drenched to the skin, catching at anything 


274 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


within reach, he crawled along the deck towards the com- 
panionway. Again the sloop careened; he caught at a 
rope end; it proved to be the skiff’s painter still knotted 
to the shrouds. The sloop mounted a huge wave and he 
was thrown backwards. Again he caught at something. 
This time it proved to be the handle of Lili’s boat hook 
wedged tightly into the knotted cordage. 

There was a scared look in his face as he reached 
through the darkness for the painter. He was searching 
for the end which went over the sloop’s side. There was 
no resistance as he drew it towards him. He passed his 
fingers over the end and uttered a cry of horror. It had 
been cut with a knife. “Captain! The skiff! Lili! 
Where is she?” 

For a moment the sloop rode upon an even keel and 
he struggled to his feet, peering through the driving 
_ deluge. 

He thought he heard the thud—thud—of oars strain- 
ing in their locks only a few yards away in the darkness. 
Peet ait Lili!” he shrieked. 

Then as he listened there came out of the hissing, 
seething storm a faint wail, a muffled cry. As though 
the heavens had been rent in twain there followed crash 
upon crash, and he fell back upon the deck, where Ben 
found him unconscious. 


275 


Chapter XXX 


ATCHES of sodden snow still lingered along the 

P shaded, sunken lanes. Within the shadow of the 

great courtyard wall it lay cold and blue. Seduc- 

tive sunlight mantled the wall top, the oozy sod, the well- 

house roof where the doves cooed and quarreled and 
strutted. 

Upon a bank beside the great granite doorstep lolled 
a drowsy-eyed setter, who lazily watched her litter of 
puppies as they climbed and rolled and climbed the bank 
again. 

The tame crow sat upon a nearby apple tree with ruffled 
feathers, one leg tucked up under his wing, his head 
slowly, wisely revolving. He gave a purposeless, melan- 
choly caw and fell to plucking his plumage. Suddenly 
as a door slammed he spread his wings and flew across 
the court with much ado. His old enemies the doves had 
stolen a march on him. Alina stood before the stable 
door feeding the doves from her tam-o-shanter which 
was filled with oats. She closed her eyes and laughed as 
the soft wings brushed her cheek. They would not wait 
for her to dole out the oats, but fell upon her pell-mell, a 
struggling feathery mass. 

Her cheeks flushed; her eyes sparkled; she laughed 
aloud at the impudence of her feathered friends. 

“‘ Ah, what a waste of oats!” exclaimed the Maitre, who 
stood smiling in the studio door, “but I would give all 
the oats of Normandy my child to paint you as you are 


276 





Za@’Or. 


On the road to the Charto 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


at this moment—Go on you black imp! ‘You spoil the 
picture!” He picked up a clod and shied it at the crow 
who sailed back to his apple tree with a succession of 
angry caws. 

“Now Maitre!” Alina looked up reproachfully as 
Schock seated himself in the stable doorway, “that is 
your only fault.” 

“No! No! my child—” he raised his hands protest- 
ingly “there is no class now—there can be no jeal- 
ousies—I must—I will tell you when you are beautiful.” 

The setter came ambling across the court, followed by 
her litter, and laid her chin upon his knee. 

“But you never say those things to M’lle Chauvin!” 
Alina caught up one of the puppies and cuddled him in 
her neck. 

The Maitre laughed—“ M’lle Chauvin, with a head 
like a cow.” 

“Or M’lle Topsue, or Blanc or Peel or Miss 
Dolchester.” 

“ How can one compliment her? Sérieusement, Made- 
moiselle; I am glad she is no longer my pupil. Her life 
is one great lie. Bah—lI wonder whose baby she is drug- 
ging now? They say she is at Grand Merville. She 
found some motifs there last August. 

With a sad, far away look in her eyes, Alina cuddled 
the puppy so tightly that he whined and kicked. The 
mention of Grand Merville brought up a host of 
memories. 

The Maitre saw his mistake and was glad to call out. 
“ Ah—here comes the wagon for our envois.” 


277 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Just to think of sending one’s Salon picture from the 
same studio, boxed by the same carpenter, piled into the 
same van along with the envoi of one of France’s great- . 
est masters. 

Alina stood by as the boxes were carefully lifted into 
the cart, thinking of all the kind things that Schock had 
said of her “ Plowman,” and wondering what would be 
its fate. 

As the blue painted wagon rumbled out through the 
gateway and down the lane, she followed it for a time, 
then as it disappeared around a curve, turned into the 
Leper’s Road with the sense of mingled freedom and sus- 
pense that always follows the departure of the envoz. 

She turned into a rutted, disused road, and was soon 
striding across the plain towards Silleron. There were 
signs of spring at every turn. The plowing had begun 
and she stopped more than once to watch the heavy- 
footed horses plunging through the rich, sodden earth, 
which sent up a delightful aroma. 

She found herself standing alone upon the brow of the 
hill above Blosseville, where the Inseparables had stood 
on that frosty Christmas night. She could see the wood 
of Blosseville lying below, and the smoke rising from 
the little awberge. 

The picture sent a long chain of recollections coursing 
through her brain, ending with the farewell at the Smug- 
gler’s Gorge. So, as she walked she ceased to notice the 
plowing and planting, and there were tears in her eyes 
as she came to a sudden standstill beneath the walls of 


278 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


the Chateau of Silleron. Her face broke into a smile 
_ as a shrill whinny greeted her ears. 

She pushed her way through a broken hedge, and in a 
moment was in the box stall with her arms about the 
mare’s neck. She had not been at Silleron since snow 
first fell. The Count in America, the great silent Chateau 
practically deserted, she had not had the heart to come, 
notwithstanding the Count’s invitation to ride the mare ' 
whenever she chose. 

“Dear ‘old girlie! You knew my step after all these 
months! There—there’s a lump from Ben and a lump 
from Felix and a lump from me!” She playfully laid 
her cheek against the soft, silken nose as she doled out 
the sugar lumps. 

“How Ben would love to see you! How Felix would 
fondle you. Ah me She looked yearningly into 
the great intelligent eyes. “JI can talk with you about 
everything, and you will never tell.” She had much to 
tell for it was a good hour before she -quitted the box 
stall with a contented face. Her heart was lighter for 
she had unburdened it, and fully trusted her confidante. 

“ Bye-bye-girlie! Don’t cry! I will come again!” 

The mare poked her nose through the small window 
and kept up a shrill whinnying as long as she could 
hear Alina’s footsteps. 

She struck across the plain towards Sotteville. The 
ground was oozy and the grass still matted and heavy 
with the winter rains. So after walking a while, she 
sought a warm dry bank and rested a few moments. 


279 





I'he HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


A little way off the thatched roof of a fisherman’s hut 
rose above soine gnarled apple trees. All about, draped 
upon the bushes in fantastic loops, were the nets that 
bespoke the cottager’s trade. 

She only half noticed the sound of voices coming from 
beyond the apple trees. 

“L’Etoile de Mer? Yes Monsieur; that is my boat 
and I am still sailing her and expect to sail her for many 
years. Speak more plainly Monsieur; your French is 
bad—Jersey? Aye; I thought you hailed from there. 
Looking for Lili? Then you must cease looking for she is 
dead. You doubt it? You, a sailor talk of a woman 
rowing ashore in that gale? Impossible! They found 
her the next morning on the beach. You loved her? Ho! 
Ho! a sou for such love! An ass you were besides—and 
you never knew she loved the tow-head whom you carried 
to England? Ho! Ho!” 

The shrill, crackling voice of the aged fisherman came 
sharply to her ears. The other voice was pitched so low 
as to be almost inaudible. 

“And she was going to England with you? The 
greater fool she would have been! A fig for a sailor’s 
love! She is better dead—better dead. 

Alina waited to hear no more. She slid down the 
bank and started along the field bordering the sunken 
road. She knew now why the potato-boat had waited 
so willingly in the offing on that wild autumn night. 

She started down the high bank, and was seeking a 
foothold in the slippery clay, when a homy sailor’s hand 


280 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


was raised to hers and a face in which played all the 
sunlight of Capri looked up at her with ardent eyes. 

She started; his “ Permit me Miss,” uttered in Bil- 
lingsgate English, sounded so strange out in these Nor- 
man fields. 

The burning black eyes rested admiringly upon hers. 
He seemed counting upon her company, but with lowered 
eyes she said—“ Thank you for your kindness,’ and 
started up the hill. 

She knew that he watched her for some moments. 
She could feel the look of those burning passionate eyes, 
and she knew that Lili’s love for Felix had been tried 
by fire. 

She wondered if sunlight like this existed anywhere 
else in the world. The frost might be somewhere below 
the soft humid soil, but something in the air told her 
that the primroses holding up their sunny faces cour- 
ageously along the sunbaked banks had not been betrayed 
into forcing the season. : 

Dear little heralds of Spring. She knelt and enclos- 
ing a cluster of flowers within her two hands, buried her 
face in the cool, fresh, sweet-smelling bed. 

It was natural that her eyes should have taken on that 
far away look once more as she lifted her head and then 
buried her face time and time again. 

Sounds recall much; objects more; but some subtle 
scent stealing through the senses like a sweet, sad in- 
toxicant, will make the heart beat and the blood bound 
as though there had been no weeks or months or years. 


281 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


Once more she reached the Leper’s Road, and was 
not far from the chapel of Our Lady of the Valley, 
when she turned at sound of heavy foot falls. It was 
Pére Boudin sorting over his letters as he walked. 

He lifted his cap obsequiously as he loitered past. 
“Mademoiselle has sent her picture to the Salon! They 
say Mademoiselle will take a mention this year. The 
Maitre has influence—great influence! Mademoiselle is 
glad?” 

He raised his eyebrows questioningly. Alina’s only 
reply was a cold, stony stare. She had not forgotten 
Grand Merville. 

The letter carrier shrugged his shoulders and started 
on again, but halted after a few steps. “ Attendez!” he 
ran over his letters. “ Yes; here it is, a letter for Made- 
moiselle—from Boston—the Messieurs are well?” he 
raised his eyebrows again as he held out the letter, but 
she took it from his hand with a quick, cold “ Merci!” 
and thrusting it into her pocket started down the road. 

Felix’s letters came with fitful irregularity. At times 
they were full of hope, written with all the dash of his 
boyish, impulsive self. At other times she would steal 
away to read them alone, for the tears would come and 
the Maitre must not see. 

Ben wrote his eight pages each week with unwavering 
regularity. His letters were always helpful, uplifting, 
cheerful. They braced her for work. They told her all 
the little details of the men’s lives; how he and Felix 
had taken a Harcourt Studio which was Felix’s home, 


282 





“« The studio was Felix’s home.” 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


how he lived at home with his parents, spending his days 
with Felix at the studio. 

The winter had passed quickly in spite of a great 
loneliness which at times all but drove her to Paris. The 
Master had taken her to him as though she had been the 
daughter of his old age, and urged her on to noble efforts, 
with results that brought the happy glow of pride to her 
cheeks as he praised the virility which characterized her 
work. 

‘The other pupils had gone to Paris for the winter, so 
all through the long months master and pupil worked in 
the great glass-walled, glass-roofed studio, where there 
was the light of out of doors with none of the discom- 
forts of winter. 

Alina waited until Pére Boudin was out of sight before 
she broke the letter’s seal. It was from Ben. Within 
she found a second sealed envelope upon which was 
written—‘‘ Open only when alone.” 

“Alone?” Her eyes fell upon the lonely chapel of 
Our Lady of the Valley. 

Crossing the little greensward she approached the low 
door and peered within. The place was as silent as death. 
A few straggling rays of the setting sun illumined the 
paper flowers upon the rude little altar. The chapel was 
damp and cold. What wonder—there had been no fire 
there for three hundred years. Entering, she broke the 
seal of the second envelope and read. 


* * * * ite * 
283 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Excepting on féte days the chapel of Our Lady of the 
Valley was but little used by the peasantry. They had a 
preference for St. Martin’s with its garish decorations 
and vested choir. 

‘Two slender girlish forms however, came and went 
each day at sun-down, bringing old-fashioned garden 
flowers, which they placed before the crude image of 
Our Lady of the Valley. 

But this was not their only mission. They had proven 
the efficacy of prayer at the Pool of St. Mathilde. They 
came to pray. Prayer had brought life, peace, joy to 
them ; why should it not to others? 

As they came over the fields they prattled on in simple 
girlish fashion. “ And you miss posing for Monsieur 
Felix, Celeste?” Little Marie’s eyes rested upon her 
cousin’s with a troubled look. 

Celeste’s only reply was a downward glance, while a 
conscious flush colored her delicate cheek, then subsid- 
ing left her face as pale as it had been before. 

“We must pray for him Marie! Pray—pray—that he 
may live. O Marie; I can’t pray as I ought—I—I—” 
She buried her face in her arm and sobbed. 

“You love him!” Little Marie’s arm was laid caress- 
ingly about her cousin’s form. “ It is no sin Celeste, to 
love as you love. The good Curé has told me so. 
Come! let us pray and perhaps he will come back to us 
again and finish the Virgin of Wisdom and then o 
she smiled and drew Celeste towards the chapel door 
“Who knows what will happen.” 

As they entered they dipped their fingers in the Holy 


284 





The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


font, and crossing themselves, selected places directly 
before the altar. 

While she used the prayer-book and rosary for the 
greater part, Celeste would often formulate prayers of 
her own, the rhythmic beauty of which little Marie had 
never before heard. 

Her gentle, melodious voice echoed through the silent 
chapel—* Our Blessed Lady of the Valley, Mother of 
Jesus, thou hast succored those who truly believe. Blessed 
Virgin before the throne of God, hear us now; succor 
him; make him well; breathe into his nostrils thy breath. 
Fill him with thy spirit lest he die.” 

A low moan resounded through the place, but it came 
from neither of the girls. 

“Holy Mother save him! Save him! If he die we 
cannot live!” 

Again the moan mingled with the dying echoes of 
Celeste’s silvery voice, so distinctly that the girls started 
apprehensively. 

“Stop! Stop! I implore you! You must not! It is 
useless! He is dead!” 

Poor innocent little Celeste. She clasped her slender 
hands upon her breast and looked with horror and won- 
derment upon the distracted, tear-stained face that ap- 
peared between her and the altar. 

“ Ah Mademoiselle—is it you?” 

Alina thrust a crumpled letter towards the girl as she 
closed her hand over her eyes and, falling upon the altar 
steps, cried as though her heart would break. 


285 


Chapter XXXI 


HE Count and Swami stood before a half opened 
case which had been tilted against the wall. 
Celeste’s girlish face looked out at them from 
between the boards. It was the unfinished Virgin of 
Wisdom. 

As they looked, a burst of melody came up to them 
from below. They turned upon Ben with questioning 
eyes. 

He smiled. “ You are in America my friends! In this 
country commerce and art shoulder up against each other 
in a remarkable way. These studios are over an organ 
factory. The tuning process used to drive Felix nearly 
crazy, poor fellow. The only satisfaction he had was in 
playing the organs after they were finished. He could 
always lose himself in music you know.” | 

“Lose himself!” exclaimed the Swami. “ Ah; there 
you strike the keynote of the situation. Had he for- 
gotten himself and claimed his full spiritual birthright, 
he might be here in the body to-day. You say the super- 
stition of his childhood came true?” 

Ben’s face saddened at the question. What wonder. 
He had found a cold, silent form lying across the studio 
table on the morning of Felix’s twenty-fifth birthday. 

“Yes;” he replied, ‘it came true.” His voice half 
failed him as he uttered the words. 

“Poor boy—” said the Count, “think of going through 
life with such an incubus as that!” 


286 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The Swami raised his right hand with a characteristic 
gesture and swept it downwards. ‘ My friends if all the 
doctors in Christendom had pronounced this sentence, 
using all the precedents of all time, he need not have 
died. Fear clogged the valves of his heart—’ The 
Swami stopped abruptly and glanced at the door. Some- 
body had rattled the brass knocker. 

Ben opened the door. It was not necessary that the 
tall old gentleman standing without should have said— 
“Colonel Braxton, sir! I have come from Virginia to 
talk with you of my son Felix, and various matters per- 
taining to him!” 

His voice quavered as he seized Ben’s hand. “I thank 
you sir for your courtesy and kindness during this try- 
ing time.” Then as he saw Ben’s visitors, he halted with 
unruffled dignity exclaiming, “I will call again. I 
reckon you would prefer it—perhaps we could talk better 


99 





“No! No!” Ben drew him into the room. “ These 
are old friends of Felix’s and mine. We knew them in 
France.” 

The nobleman of France bore himself no better than 
the aristocrat of the Old Dominion as they went through 
the formality of an introduction, though the latter’s rusty 
frock coat was pathetically old, and his elaborate bow 
would have better suited a Queen’s Drawing Room than 
this organ-loft studio. 

The Swami’s swarthy face disturbed the Colonel. It 
was not until the sound of the Hindu’s wonderful voice 
reached his ears and he heard the pure, rhythmic Eng- 


287 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


lish, that he felt sure of his being the right sort of a 
person to meet. He had heard such strange tales of 
Yankee predilection for negroes that he was on his 
guard. : 

He had not been North for forty years. Everything 
was new and confusing. He had felt peculiarly helpless 
in the noisy New England city. The subways had taxed 
his fortitude to its fullest extent. The whirl of the streets 
dazed him, but here it was peaceful and restful. The 
Swami was saying pleasant things of Virginia, which he 
and the Count had visited in the course of their travels. 
He spoke of Felix in a way that brought tears to the 
father’s eyes. He called him great—a genius. 

The Colonel was constrained to say—‘“ Then you 
really think my son was pursuing a proper vocation for a 
gentleman?” WHe laid particular stress upon “ gentle- 
man.” I have had a fear of late that I may possibly have 
misunderstood him. You know we disagreed in the be- 
ginning.” The Colonel flushed a little. “ There were 
things about his art which were not chaste, decent, to my 
mind. God forbid that I should have wronged him. He 
was sensitive and took it hard, but I was forced to sus- 
tain the honor of the Braxtons.” He rose to his feet 
and straightened himself to his full height. A hand was 
thrust into the front of his coat. 

Ben laid a kindly hand upon the Colonel’s arm, bidding 
him be seated again. “ Yes; Felix was sensitive! The 
Swami was just saying that he would be living to-day 
had it not been for a superstition, a morbid fear of 
death.” 


288 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“ Superstition? Fear of death?’ The Colonel looked 
up nonplussed, his long sensitive fingers (they were so 
like Felix’s) tightly clutching the arms of the antique 
chair. 

“When he was a little boy!’ Ben spoke softly “ Can’t 
you recall the day that he ran a race with little black 
Joe and you had to call the doctor because he fainted? ” 

The long fingers relaxed their hold upon the chair arm. 
Ben’s short sentences had set a chain of recollections in 
operation. 

The Colonel rose and paced the floor as he was wont to 
pace the great hall at Oaklands when recalling the past— 
he lived so much in the past—it was so easy to recall 
the happy days before the war, but this thing happened 
after Appomattox; he had barely lived since then and 
when one barely lives, things do not stamp themselves 
upon the mind. 

He continued to pace back and forth for some moments ; 
then halted abruptly as he pressed a forefinger and thumb 
against his eyeballs. - 

“Ah yes; now I remember it all. His mother had 
died that spring. My sorrow had blotted out much that 
happened afterwards. Yes; I sent for Dr. Drayton. I 
remember how he laughed as he drove up in his chaise 
and found Felix playing upon the porch with little Joe. 
He almost believed I had fooled him. His diagnosis? 
Well, as far as I can remember now, it was a case of 
green apples and too much hot sun.” He smiled. 

Ben’s eyes met the Swami’s in mutual surprise as he 
exclaimed ‘“ But Felix told another story.” 


289 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


The Colonel was just about to seat himself but turned 
an astonished face upon Ben. “A different story?” 

“Yes; he said the doctor tried to hoodwink him into 
believing that there was nothing the matter, but stated 
the truth to you after you had sent the boy from the 
room.’’ 

“ Ah, but how did he—”’ The Colonel did not finish 
his sentence so eager was Ben to solve the mystery of 
Felix’s life. “The window was open—he listened out- 
side. He heard the doctor say ‘If he lives to be sixteen 
he will die at twenty-five.’ ”’ 

The Colonel was pacing the floor once more. Again 
he pressed his eyeballs with the tips of his tapering 
fingers. His eyebrows met in a puzzled scowl. “No! 
No! He never said that of Felix. We must—have been 
—talking—We were! I remember now! We were talk- 
ing of another case over in Charlottesville; a weakling 
from birth—My God—do you say Felix believed this of 
himself?” 

The faces of the three men answered his question long 
before the Swami’s deep voice filled the room—“‘ He 
did! Your son’s spirit left the body through the action 
of wrong thought! As aman thinketh so is he! Thought 
guides the body as it will! But he lives—there is no 
death! Life is Spirit and Spirit never dies!” 

The slender fingers were once more clutching the 
carved chair arms. The clear cut face was bowed in 
thought. He saw a flaxen haired child in an old fashioned 
flower garden, pulling handfuls of bright asters. Hover- 


290 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


ing over him, guarding him from the swarming bees was 
a dear face which shone with a mother’s love. 

The sensitive fingers left the arms of the chair and the 
Colonel’s face fell into his hands. 

There was a tone of regret in Ben’s voice—“ I fear it 
will be impossible for me to send anything over to the 
scholarship committee. I cannot recall that Felix finished 
a single picture and yet he was a most brilliant worker. 
He took prize after prize for academy work. These 
studies—”. he waved his hand at a long row which stood 
along the side of the room, “are masterly! But unfor- 
tunately they are not pictures. The scholarship com- 
mittee want pictures.’ He turned to the janitor— 

“You may open that big box! Another unfinished 
one!” he explained. “ This would have been the master- 
piece of his life. It was to have been a Psyche.” 

Ben reached over to steady the case from which the 
janitor was wrenching the cover. 

As the last obstinate nail gave way, he seized the filmy 
cheese cloth which had been loosely tacked across the 
canvas and tore it off with one sweep of the hand. The 
wonderful eyes greeted him as of old, but he uttered a 
quick cry—a cry of joy. 

There were the youthful shoulders, the pearly pulsing 
bosom; the flexuous, tapering arms and hands; the 
long classic sweep of maidenly thigh; the young, well 
rounded lower limbs and delicately modeled feet sup- 
porting all so firmly and well. 

“When did he do it? He had no model! He gave it 


291 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


up, I know he did!” then as Ben encountered the Swami’s 
exultant, victorious look he involuntarily exclaimed— 
“You know?” 

“Yes; I know, for I saw the spirit of man dealing 
with pigments and canvas as the Master of masters deals 
with men and things, counting them as naught except as 
they reveal love, divine and eternal.” 

The Swami laid a hand upon Ben’s arm—‘“ You have 
not forgotten the ‘ Painter of Dreams’? The seed sown 
on that Christmas night fell in rich soil and rooted and 
grew until like the Painter of Dreams, Felix cast aside 
academy precedents and models and painted purity in 
the form of woman.” 

There was a long silence. “‘ You wonder when he did 
it—why need you? There were times when The Insepar- 
ables were separated. Ah my friend; you forget how 
often and long you rode with her.” 

The Swami stopped for a moment, then as the con- 
scious color stole to Ben’s ruddy cheeks, he went on— 

“When the Psyche was finished and he had seen the 
healing at the Pool, Felix’s victory was all but won. 
Then—ah well—you have told me of the tragedy of 
Mont Carmel when the image of fear was once more 
photographed upon his consciousness, as for the rest—” 

The Swami covered his eyes for a moment and swept 
his hands downwards and outwards with a gesture which 
suggested the casting aside of a hateful memory. 

Again there was a long silence. Someone was playing 
a series of minor modulations upon the organ below. 

They continued to gaze at the Psyche, the nude in 


292 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


which there was no nakedness, for she was clothed in 
that which had shamed the Colonel to silence as he started 
to raise a protesting hand, a silence from which he awoke 
with a burdened heart, for he knew that he had wronged 
his son on that August day when he had sent him forth 
from Oaklands. 


293 


Chapter XXXII 


ERE FOUCHET was there. Celeste was there. 
M Little Marie was smiling a farewell through 
her tears as she watched the men pile Alina’s 

boxes on to the top of the dusty old diligence. 

The Maitre had helped her mount to the roof seat and 
now sat beside her for they were on their way to Paris 
and the vermissage. 

Obsequious, smiling, Pére Boudin was there. He had 
even handed up Jack to Alina. She deposited the dog 
upon the seat between her and the Maitre. 

“Hola! Arrétez!’”’ The driver was gathering up his 
reins. Boudin climbed up the side of the diligence again 
- with something in his hand. “A letter Mademoiselle—I 
all but forgot it!” 

She thrust it into her pocket and waved a farewell to 
Mére Fouchet. The old peasant woman’s broad chest 
was heaving. Tears were coursing down her heavily 
seamed face, but she stood bravely smiling a last farewell. 

Alina had assured her that it was not good bye for al- 
ways, but something told the honest old foster mother’s 
heart that she would never see Alina again. 

The rickety old diligence slowly toiled upwards to the 
plain. Alina turned in her seat as they reached the top. 

There was Bréport lying below, the morning mists still 
lingering and mingling with the smoke from the chau- 
miéeres. The bell of St. Martin’s was striking nine. A 
flock of pigeons flew upwards, circled about and descended 


294 





The conical roofed well house. 





2 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


upon a conical shaped well roof jutting upwards from 
among the trees. 

“They are unhappy,” said the Maitre noticing the 
flight. “ They know we have gone.” 

There was Sotteville beyond the stretch of moor; the 
mackerel boats in the offing, a toy fleet upon a sheet 
of turquoise. Far beyond against the purple gray hori- 
zon Saint Margaret’s light, a cream white column mount- 
ing the headland, shone in the morning sunlight. 

Then as her eyes swept across the familiar stretch of 
rolling plain that she had come to love so well, they en- 
countered the gables and towers of Silleron and she won- 
dered if the Count knew about Felix. 

And so they drove through the May morning until at 
last the driver put on the brakes and with much creak- 
ing and grinding the diligence rattled down the hill into 
Saint Valery and pulled up before the station. 

It was a branch road. The stops were frequent and 
the waits long, but the Maitre was in excellent spirits. 
He had received a letter that morning from his friend 
Chalon saying that his picture had been given a place of 
honor in one of the important salons. 

He smilingly hinted that he was not the only one 
coming in for honors that year—(just as though he had 
not already taken all the honors possible), that there 
was a pleasant surprise awaiting her when she should 
have arrived in Paris. “ Nous verrons! Nous verrons,’ 
he repeated over and over until Alina all mystified and 
curious would break into smiles and call him a tease. 

It was not until they had been coupled to the rapide 


295 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


from Havre at Motteville and were speeding on towards 
Paris that Alina suddenly remembering the letter, took it 
from her pocket and tore it open. It was addressed by 
Ben. 

She started as she recognized Felix’s handwriting upon 
one of the sheets. 

“ Dear Alina;”’ Ben’s letter ran, “ Not long ago I asked 
you to read a letter when alone. Will you do me the same 
kindness when you open this?” 

Alina glanced across at the Maitre. He was buried be- 
hind his Figaro. 

“T have tried to write you all about Felix during the 
last few weeks, but have failed. I have not written all. 
No—not even though it were his wish that I should. 
No; not even though my own life is in the balance. I 
have done you a wrong. I have withheld a letter upon 
which Felix’s cheek rested when I found him that morn- 
ing. He must have been writing it when death came, 
you see it is unfinished. 

“T could not send it before. It would have been sacri- 
lege even though they were his last words to you. It 
would have been selfish, brutal in the light of his love; 
so out of respect for his memory, I have held it until 
now. 

“ He asks for me that which I should have asked long 
ago in far away Normandy had I not known that by the 
asking I should have separated the Inseparables.” 

Alina could not see the ending or signature because— 
ah well; tears sometimes mean joy as well as sorrow and 
perhaps they meant both in her case. 


296 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


Dear, noble, great hearted Ben. She suppressed a sob 
and watched the velvety meadows go reeling by. 

At last she felt sure of herself and unfolded the other 
sheet with reverential touch. 


“ DEAREST HEART: 

“How often was I tempted to call you thus, time and 
time again in those dear days when we three lived and 
laughed and suffered together. God’s greatest gift to me 
was when your sweet face met mine. Life’s greatest 
‘sorrow came when with the touch of your lips still upon 
mine, I drifted in that hated boat through the storm, 
away from our Acadia, from you, from life itself. 

“T have not lived since then. That hideous vampire 
which rarely came when you were with me, has closed 
in upon me and clung closer and closer, drawing at my 
heart’s blood until—I hasten to tell you my love lest in 
a day, or an hour, or a few moments it may be too late. 

“This is my twenty-fifth birthday. You have not for- 
gotten my confession at the foot of the cross? Then you 
know why I am anxious. 

“T had sinned and my past was hawked before your 
eyes in all its nakedness. I fought against a premonition 
—a curse and you saw me weaken day by day. 

“T love you dearest, for your noble spirit that counted 
not a man’s errors his all. I love you dearest for be- 
lieving in me. For recognizing that though a slave to 
technique and my own fears, I could attain noble ideals. 

“T claim nothing! I ask nothing except that you permit 
dear Ben to claim that which is already his. 


297 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Yes; dearest I know it! I saw it that last night upon 
the beach. I saw it although you barely knew it your- 
self. Let nothing come between you and the noblest 
man living. He loves you as you should be loved, with 
a greatness and gentleness that cannot be measured. 

“TI have been impelled to write this morning. Some- 
thing tells me that my heart which has gradually been 
weakening will suddenly stop, and I wanted you to know 
all. You have been my life—my love—my all. You have 
been my hope, my support—my——” 


That was all save some blots. 

She closed her eyes and dropping the letter into her 
lap let her head fall back into the cushioned corner. She 
remained a long time thus until the Maitre sprang to his 
feet muttering—“ Sapristi, Mademoiselle! read that!” 
He pointed to a paragraph under the head of tragedies. 
“An apostle of realism. A demotselle Anglaise. Pupil 
of the Académie Julian and Schock the great animal 
painter, met her death at Grand Merville yesterday in a 
most singular manner. She was sketching by the river 
bank when attacked from behind by a legless beggar 
known as The Soldier of France, who beat her to death 
with his heavy oaken crutch. When arrested and accused 
he made no denial. He had just been serving a term in 
jail for perjury and had only been liberated that morning. 
His only excuse was that he hated her because she had 
been the cause of his imprisonment. The local authorities 
say that the beggar was imprisoned for trying to in- 
criminate an American artist suspected of pushing a 


298 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


peasant from the top of Mont Carmel a year ago during 
the fétes of St. Mathilde. 

“The beggar had been bribed and it is reasonable to 
suppose that the young English woman was the person 

who had bribed him.” 

Yes, it was awful; revolting in its ghastliness, but 
she again fell to watching the fleeting meadows and wind- 
ing river. 

The Maitre regarded her with curious eyes, then his 
glance encountered the letter lying in her lap. 

With that wonderful intuition peculiar to the French, 
the intuition that reads more in one action, one look, 
than an Anglo-Saxon reads in volumes, he settled back 
into his corner and once more read his Figaro. 


299 


Chapter XXXIII 


HIPS flying the colors of King George had brought 

S the bricks of this old homestead from England. 

The birth-place of that other George who had 

given the Hanoverian so much trouble, was but a few 

leagues distant. Great oaks shaded the drive-way from 

lower to upper gate from which point was an unin- 

terrupted view of the valley and town below. Beyond, 

hemming in the horizon, was the hazy, billowy line of the 
Blue Ridge. 

The monotonous tune of the locust filled the mid- 
summer air. Now and then the hoarse croaking of crows 
would echo along the avenue of oaks. An army of bees 
were hard at work in the two old-fashioned flower beds 
upon either side of the great porch, some of them quar- 
reling with a gorgeous green humming-bird who fancied 
that the fragrant honeysuckle climbing up the trellis was 
for him alone. 

The August sunlight enveloped all with such fervor 
that wavy lines of heat rose from the surrounding fields. 
An aged negro sat upon the lowest of the porch steps, 
his chin upon his chest, his bald pate shining like an 
ebony ball. His elbows rested disjointedly upon his knees. 
The wrinkled, bony hands hung listlessly downwards, he 
was sleeping peacefully. 

“Pompey! O Pompey!” called a voice from within. 

He awoke with a start; “ Bress ma soul! Dar’s Marse 
Braxton callin’ an’ I ain’t pulled dem flowers yet! ” strug- 
gling to his feet he shuffled off towards the flower beds. 


300 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“Pompey! Pompey! Where are those flowers? You 
rascal! You’ve been sleeping again I suppose!”’ The 
master of Oaklands stood frowning from the porch. 

Pompey stopped and listened with feigned surprise. He 
turned an aggrieved face towards his master. 

“Dees yer varmints am de wussest I ever did see!” 
He swished away the bees as he took a sly side glance 
at the Colonel. “Go on you varmints! Doan yer know 
Pompey is pulling dese yer flowers to decolcate young 
Marse Felix’s grave? Doan yer know young Marse Felix 
is dead? Doan yer know old Pompey loved him like his 
own chile?” 

“Come you have pulled enough! We will go down 
now!” Colonel Braxton opened the gate and stood aside. 
As the aged negro passed, the lines about the Colonel’s 
mouth and jaw softened. There was a tender look in 
his eyes. Felix had loved old Pompey. 

They descended the weedy walk. Pompey shuffling on 
ahead, bent with his burden of sweet peas, branching 
roses and purple asters. He put them down when they 
neared the middle gate and hurrying ahead opened it for 
the Colonel, waiting respectfully until he had passed 
through; then, gathering them up again, followed his 
master. 

They turned off to the left where a pasture bordered 
the roadway. <A simple slab of slate marked the 
spot. 

The Colonel stood with bent, bared head, while the old 
negro cleared away the withered flowers of yesterday and 
tenderly strewed the grave with the fresh sweet smell- 


301 


The HONOR of th BRAXTONS 


ing mass, then falling upon his knees with bowed head 
muttered a fervent, half audible prayer. 

The Colonel stood for a long time lost in his own medi- 
tations. This was all that he could do for Felix now. He 
had loved the boy but had misunderstood and wronged 
him. The consciousness of this mistake had whitened 
his head and deepened the lines in his sensitive face. 

The insolence of dunning creditors, the land of his an- 
cestors all gone, the very bricks and mortar of Oaklands 
mortgaged and the foreclosure imminent; the roof which 
had sheltered the Braxtons since King George’s days 
about to be wrested from him, these and a hundred other 
things he counted as naught in the gloom of this greatest, 
crowning sorrow of his life. 

At last they started back. When Pompey closed the 
upper gate behind the Colonel, he espied his boy Joe. 

“Whar yer bin yer good fur nothin nigger? Loafin 
in de pos office? Gib der Cunnel dat letter! Doan yer 
see him waitin fur it?” 

The Colonel seated himself upon the porch and putting 
on his eyeglasses scanned the envelope. 

“Boston? from Felix’s friend Cushing of course.” 

He tore it open and drew forth the contents. A check 
fluttered to the floor. He flushed and unconsciously drew 
himself up in his chair. Had he not told Mr. Cushing 
that the Braxtons had never been mendicants? What 
did he mean by sending this check? 

““ My dear Colonel Braxton: ” Ben’s letter ran, “ Do not 
be alarmed when you see the enclosed check. I am not 
making mendicants of the Braxtons. 


302 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


“You see I have not forgotten your reply when I 
offered to help you at the time of your visit North. 

“ Felix’s picture which I sent to the Paris Salon has 
been the sensation of the year. It received an Honorable 
Mention and was bought by a millionaire who will present 
it to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

“Enclosed is his check for eight thousand dollars. I 
think you told me that five thousand would save Oak- 
lands. No one is happier than I that Felix should have 
sustained the family honor in so substantial and noble a 
manner, for I loved him as a brother. 

“ Most cordially yours, 
“ BENJAMIN CUSHING.” 


* * * * * K * 


Alina sat in deep thought, her hands folded over her 
riding stick, her chin resting lightly upon them. She had 
sat thus for a long time. The guardians had stared to 
see a young woman in a riding habit pass up the stairway 
and across the silent gallery. 

The place was practically deserted. She had seen the 
Psyche surrounded by throngs at the Paris Salon. More 
than once tears of joy had welled to her eyes as she stood 
in the crowd and listened to exclamations of wonder and 
praise, and yet it had been a sort of aggravation withal 
for she kept thinking how the pale, fair face and blue 
eyes would have lighted with pride; the scholarship vindi- 
cated; Oaklands saved; the honor of the Braxtons most 
gloriously maintained; the false, unjust cloud under 


303 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


which he had left his father swept away; the world better 
for the creation of a noble masterpiece. 

Now for the first time she sat before it alone. Hers 
was an artist soul possessed of that intelligence which 
sees the Creator’s chaste spirit pervading all things, its 
loveliness in all nature, and nowhere so transcendently 
beautiful and pure as in the unveiled body that enshrines 
the soul of man. 

She thought of how Felix’s genius, even through the 
mistaken means of a first passion, had fixed upon canvas 
the face of his ideal. She thought of his terrible awak- 
ening, then that long, hopeless stretch of months, the dis- 
grace of an unfulfilled scholarship hanging over him, his 
ideal ever with him crying out for expression in spite of 
the sinking heart, the suspended sword. She kept her 
eyes closed for some time; it was not necessary to open 
them in order to see the Psyche for there she was in all 
her innocent loveliness looking out from the obscurity of 
a little Norman cottage loft. Once more she was sitting 
upon a pile of straw. She seemed to scent the pungent, 
musty odor of the straw and dried herbs hanging from 
the rafters. She could hear the twittering of birds and 
the pattering of their tiny feet upon the roof over-head. 

She sees a dear, pale, distraught face peering out from 
the attic’s gloom. She hears his cry, a yearning, plead- 
ing voice begging her not to cast him off, then—how it 
happens she does not clearly see, but her hands are gently 
caressing his sunny head for he has thrown himself at 
her feet. | 

She car hear her own words and once more sees the 


304 


The HONOR of the BRAXTONS 


wondrous happiness in his face as she utters them—‘‘ Ah 
Felix; Don’t! don’t cry like that! You might fail ever 
so badly, but I should always have to forgive you be- 
cause—because—” She had never told him why. 

She sat with closed eyes, her lips parted, great hot 
tears coursing down her cheeks. 


* *K * Kk * * * 


There was a step beside her. She opened her eyes. 
“Ben!” She laid her hand tenderly within her hus- 
" band’s. 3 

“Yes dearest; I have been here some time.” 

His voice quavered as he met her tearful glance. With 
fingers interlocked in loving clasp they sat long in silence 
looking at the Psyche. 


305 





Sieebeit ear ie iy 
, bet th 














4A DRONE and 
AA DREAMER 


| By NELSON LLOYD 
Author of “The Chronic Loafer’’ 


AN AMERICAN LOVE STORY 
Illustrated, Cloth, 8vo, $1.50 


«¢« A Drone and A Dreamer’ recalls the maxim of La 
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PAUL BOURGET 


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ELIZABETH PRENTISS 


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publication by ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE, 
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A Turitunc Accounr or ADVENTURE 
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| Voyager. 





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AND ONE 


THREE MASTERPIECES FROM THE 
RUSSIAN BY 


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“TWENTY-SIX AND ONE” 


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To Tuose Wuo Have Liven 1n Fats 
To Tose Wuo Are Livinc In Fiats, AND 


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vw Ww 


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LACHMI BAI 


MICHAEL WHITE 


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Sod Sad 
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recover her possessions from the English. 

The novel shows her in the role of The 
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Her beauty, woman’s wit and earnestness of 
purpose, all make her a most fascinating hero- 
ine, both in romance and history. 


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Nine full-page illustrations add to the charm of this ex- 
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PARLOUS TIMES 


DAVID DWIGHT WELLS 
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BY THE AUTHOR OF 
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2 w 


Parlous Times is a society novel of to-day. 
The scene is laid in London in diplomatic 
circles. The romance was suggested by experi- 
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the United States Embassy at the Court of St. 
* James. It is a charming love story, with a 
theme both fresh and attractive. The plot is 
strong, and the action of the book goes with a 
rush. Political conspiracy and the secrets of 
an old tower of a castle in Sussex play an im- 
portant part in the novel. The story is a 
bright comedy, full of humor, flashes of keen 
wit and clever epigram. It will hold the 
reader’s attention from beginning to end. 
Altogether it is a good story exceedingly well 
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Trinity BELLS 
By AMELIA E. BARR 


Cloth, 8vo, $8.50 
Sixteen full-page Illustrations by Relyea 


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“One of the best stories ever written by 


Amelia E. Barr.’’ 
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CHRISTIAN NATION: 

‘‘Without question the best book for young girls which has appeared 
for years. Besides being interesting it has an educational value, as it is good 
supplementary reading to a school course in history. Mrs. Barr is at her 
best in Trinity Bells. We trust that every library will soon have a copy on 
its shelves.”” 


LITERARY WORLD, Boston: 
‘<In idea and execution this is one of the author’s best works, and 
well worthy of its superb dress of silver and green.”’ 


THE BOOK-BUYER: 

“‘The name is happily chosen for this romantic story of life in New 
York during the period preceding the war with the Mediterranean corsairs, 
for the bells of Old Trinity ring out an accompaniment to the changing for- 
tunes of the lovable little Dutch heroine. There isa charm in Mrs. Barr’s 
work that goes directly to the reader’s heart, while her skill in the delinea- 
tion of character is no less effective in its appeal to the mind. Trinity Bells 
is an excellent minor historical romance, worthy of a permanent place in a 


young girl’s library.”” 
BOSTON TIMES: 
‘No more agreeable story of life in the early days of our country has 


ever been written. Trinity Bells shows Mrs, Barr’s charm and power in 
all its force and beauty. Besides its historical value, it is vastly entertaining.”” 





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Two SIDES 
OF A QUESTION 


Life from a Woman’s Point of View 


BY 
MAY SINCLAIR 


Cloth $1.50 


A BOOK TO READ, THINK 
OVER AND DISCUSS 


od wv 


«*A masterpiece. The vigor of the work and the knowl- 
edge of human interest it displays are altogether exceptional. 
—The Bookman. 


«‘The characters are irresistible. The book should be 


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«This book belongs to a high order of imaginative fiction, 


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LORDS tiz NORTH 


By A. C. LAUT 


A STRONG HISTORICAL NOVEL 


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ORDS OF THE NORTH is a thrilling romance 
dealing with the rivalries and intrigues of Tbe Ancient 
and Honorable Hudson’s Bay and the North-West 

Companies for the supremacy of the fur trade in the 
Great North. It is a story of life in the open; of 
pioneers and trappers. The life of the fur traders in 
Canada is graphically depicted. ‘The struggles of the Selkirk 
settlers and the intrigues which made the life of the two great 
fur trading companies so full of romantic interest, are here 
laid bare. Francis Parkman and other historians have 
written of the discovery and colonization of this part of our 
great North American continent, but no novel has appeared 
so full of life and vivid interest as Lords of the North. 
Much valuable information has been obtained from old docu- 
ments and the records of the rival companies which wielded 
unlimited power over a vast extent of our country. The 
style is admirable, and the descriptions of an untamed conti- 
nent, of vast forest wastes, rivers, lakes and prairies, will 
place this book among the foremost historical novels of the 
present day. ‘The struggles of the English for supremacy, 
the capturing of frontier posts and forts, and the life of trader 
and trapper are pictured with a master’s hand. Besides 
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(OnitE BUTTERFLIES 
By HATE UPSON CLARHA 


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ing another vein of gold. ‘The dramatic power in some of them has never 
been excelled in any American short stories. ‘So//y’ is a masterpiece.” 


ANSON JUDD UPSON, D.D., L.L.D., 
Chancellor of The Univ. of New York 
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style, the vividness of your characters and the general construction of the 
stories,” 


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illustrate more perfectly than these what we have in mind when we use, in 
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the standards and ideals are set alike. A sound, healthful Americanism, 
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St. Louis Globe-Democrat 
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Mail and Express 
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Western Club Woman 
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